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Mycroft was leaving him. He had already piled his belongings neatly on the bed. Sherlock was sitting on Mycroft’s desk, his feet kicking in the air in a nervous fit, watching his brother putting the remaining clothes away. He wanted to wreck the perfectly organized suits and to mismatch every pair of socks. He wanted to wrinkle every shirt and to leave his mark on every object that Mycroft owned, because Mycroft was going to university, and he was going to forget him. Even at nine years old, Sherlock knew that his brother was going to change. He would stop collecting samples for Sherlock, wouldn’t learn things with the sole purpose of teaching them to Sherlock, and he wouldn’t think about Sherlock at all. He’s a grown-up now, Sherlock, you need to let your brother have his own life. Stupid. As if Sherlock and Mycroft weren’t two parts of a whole. As if Sherlock wasn’t going to die of boredom, alone with his too loud thoughts, without Mycroft to make everything quiet and peaceful.

Mycroft gave him an apologetic look. He didn’t want to go; that much was clear in the way he took his time to sort out his possessions, and slowly put them away. It didn’t comfort Sherlock. Mycroft would make friends and be glad to be away from his too stupid to come with little brother. Sherlock had tried so hard to be better; to learn more things, to convince his parents to send him away with Mycroft. He had even wrote a letter to the director of the boarding school. Nothing had worked.

Mycroft closed his bag. The sound of the zipper being pulled was painful to Sherlock’s ears.
Mycroft is going away. Mycroft is going away. Mycroft is-
“Sherlock, please calm down. It’s all right.” Mycroft cradled him into his arms, and Sherlock realized that he was shaking. Mycroft rocked him softly, murmuring soothing words into Sherlock’s wild locks of hair.
“My… please don’t go,” Sherlock sobbed against Mycroft’s shoulder. He didn’t want to look weak in front of his brother- didn’t want to give him yet more reasons to abandon him- but couldn’t help the despair growing inside him. He felt Mycroft’s grip tighten.
“I’m not abandoning you, brother mine. Stop thinking that this instant.” As always, Mycroft saw right through him. “We will write and call each other so frequently you won’t even notice my absence. I’ll come home every chance I get, and you can come visit me too.”
Sherlock looked up, surprised by the tone of Mycroft’s voice. He saw sadness in his brother’s eyes. That, more than the words, made him stop crying.
“I won’t forget you either, My. Promise,” he said, wiping his tears away with his forearm. Mycroft let him go with a last squeeze. Smiling gently at him, he took his bag and left.

 

-

 

He was leaving Sherlock. He was in the car on his way to Oxford, watching as the scenery changed outside, and all he could think of was his baby brother crying against him. He had tried to comfort Sherlock and assure him that he was not abandoning him, but it felt like the worst decision he had made so far. And it was not even his decision.
Sherlock would stay with their parents, who couldn’t understand him at all, and who were probably going to treat him like the sociopath they thought he was. But he wasn’t. Sherlock was a highly emotional child which made him, in certain ways, smarter than Mycroft. He just needed someone that understood how his brain worked, and that was why this was going to make it so much harder for them. Mycroft feared that Sherlock would hate him when he came back; which would be comprehensible, he thought with a pang of sorrow. Sherlock would be alone for the first time in his life. Mycroft didn’t know how his brother would cope alone with the noise in his head.
The guilt was so strong Mycroft wanted to ask his father to let him out of the car so he could run back to his brother. He already felt strangely empty. He couldn’t imagine Sherlock growing up; learning and experiencing things without him being by his side. Nine months apart, every year. How were they supposed to endure that?

He thought of their mind palaces. Mycroft had helped Sherlock build his while teaching him how to deduce, making sure every room was as steady as possible. His own palace had been a bit wobbly at first because he had done it alone, experimenting with memorization techniques. He had rebuilt it at the same time Sherlock had created his.
His little brother was now everywhere in his mind palace. Sherlock, of course, had his own room, but it was mostly for Mycroft to have somewhere to go when he wanted to think about him and only him. In every other room there was knowledge and facts, perfectly organized, but everything was colored with Sherlock’s warm presence. Even before Sherlock’s birth, there was a longing, a missing piece in his life. Those memories felt grey and cold to him, and above all he wondered how he had endured the loneliness. He had spent seven years entirely alone, surrounded by people that couldn’t even begin to understand him. And now, he was leaving Sherlock to the same fate.

No, he promised himself. I will make sure he knows I’m still here for him even if I’m physically away; even if he ends up hating me.

Already planning how he was going to send Sherlock samples of what he would find in Oxford, Mycroft let the motion of the car lull him to sleep.

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Sherlock couldn’t stand still. Mycroft was finally coming back and they would spend two full months together. They hadn’t seen each other since Christmas because their parents had insisted that Mycroft should concentrate on his studies rather than come back home during the weekends, to Sherlock’s silent distress. Even though Mycroft had kept his promise to send samples and write to him, it had been a poor substitute to having his brother with him.

Sherlock was walking in circles in Mycroft’s room, stopping every time he past the window to check for the car’s upcoming arrival. He was feeling eager but uncertain about how Mycroft would act around him, and he was apprehensive of the first sight. What if Mycroft looked at him differently? Or worse, behaved like Sherlock was not worthy of his attention anymore. Mycroft would have met people who were surely more interesting to him, with whom he could speak of grown-ups things, Sherlock thought with disdain. No one but him could understand Mycroft. He didn’t care about having friends as long as he had his brother, and he hoped that Mycroft felt the same way. Why would he need someone else? They were similar. Please let me still be the most important person to you, I don’t care about anything else.

Suddenly, he heard the car stopping in front of the house. Without hesitation, he ran outside and stopped a few feet away from the vehicle. Mycroft was here, standing motionless on the driveway. He looked insecure, but had the same expression in his eyes that he had all those months ago when he was about to leave; defenses down, openhearted, letting his little brother see his emotions. Sherlock stopped worrying and jumped straight into his brother’s arms, and, just like that, everything fell back into place. He was not alone anymore.

 

-

 

“I missed you,” Mycroft told Sherlock. He wasn’t going to voice the relief he felt when Sherlock hugged him, when all his fears about his baby brother hating him had vanished, but he was sure Sherlock could deduce it. He was overwhelmed with gratitude. He hadn’t ruined the only thing that mattered. His mood had been oscillating the whole way from Oxford between hopeful happiness and terror of what was waiting for him at home. He was glad that nothing had changed between them.

Pulling himself together again, he put Sherlock down, uncomfortable in front of their parents. He had never liked how they derided their affection for each other, as if it wasn’t proof of the amazing bond and love they shared, but of their abnormality instead. He knew they were possessive of each other and that it was no ordinary sibling relationship, but god how he didn’t care. He would always be at Sherlock’s side. Don’t ever think you’re not important to me, brother mine, he thought forcefully, smiling down at Sherlock, who looked about ready to burst with joy. Feeling cheerful, he recalled everything he had sent Sherlock, and imagined what he may have done with it. He hoped their parents hadn’t seen what was inside some parcels; remembering putting vials of ten different kinds of mud in a package in front of a post office employee who had looked rather horrified.

Sherlock cut his internal questioning short by taking his hand and all but urging him into the house to show him exactly how he had experimented on the samples. Grinning like a fool, Mycroft followed him up the stairs and into his room, listening to his hypothesis and explanations. It was exhilarating to be caught in Sherlock’s restless enthusiasm again. They would speak about what they had deduced about each other later because for the moment, he simply relished the feeling of being truly home. Finally.

 

-

 

They spent every minute of the summer together: reading books shoulder to shoulder, playing music, filling the other in on what had happened in the last six months, both craving each other’s closeness. Mycroft told Sherlock about his class and explained a few key concepts. He didn’t mention that his classmates had stopped trying to speak to him altogether when they realized he was exceedingly cleverer than them despite being younger, but Sherlock read it in the way he spoke about the content of his studies.

Sherlock had got better at deducing. Mycroft could see it in how his eyes lingered on every barely perceptible detail. Sherlock was almost as efficient as he was at this point, he noticed proudly. Mycroft knew his little brother would surpass him in this skill soon because Sherlock could understand the motives behind one’s actions better. Mycroft saw the cold hard facts, while Sherlock recognized passion and torments. He was more human, and Mycroft doubted it would change. He hoped not.

Even though Sherlock was a bright child and outsmarted almost every adult, he was a child nevertheless. Mycroft willingly played pirates with him, not caring about looking puerile to the neighbours, which seemed to be Mummy’s only concern. They climbed trees, swam in the pond, and collected samples of everything that could later be analyzed with Sherlock’s microscope. They even found a dead bee that captivated Sherlock for hours on end.

Sherlock seemed to handle the boredom better as well, complaining less about life being tedious; even if the first crisis after Mycroft’s departure had been so bad Mycroft had to speak with him on the phone well into the night to calm him down. Curious, Mycroft asked him how he handled things on his own. Sherlock mumbled something about going into Mycroft’s room when it became too much, and promptly changed the subject by asking Mycroft if he could teach him astronomy. The elder brother accepted with a grin, dropping the issue, and told him they would have to sneak out of the house that night.

 

-

 

Sherlock was euphoric. Mycroft had learnt astronomy just so he could teach him during the summer. He hadn’t expected that much and yet he should have known better because Mycroft had promised to always be there for him.

He waited on his bed for his big brother to get him; deep in his mind palace, committing to memory every moment he had spent with Mycroft that day. He would revisit them during school every time that his peers called him a freak or worse. He had taken refuge in his mind palace more and more during the year, trying to visualize Mycroft by his side, scaring bullies away. He was still absorbed in the organization of his palace when he felt something tug at the edge of his mind. The presence felt warm and friendly as he followed it, letting it guide him out of his palace. Sherlock smiled as he opened his eyes, catching sight of his brother who was patiently waiting for him, leaning against the wall. He eagerly jumped off the bed and ran to him.

They went out in absolute silence and stepped away from the house, deep into the garden, hidden from the house by the trees. Mycroft made him lay down on the grass to watch the stars.
“So, what do you want to know, brother mine? I’m sure you learned quite a few things on your own already.”
“I did, but I like it better when you explain them yourself, My.”
“Alright, let’s begin with the physical explanation behind nebula’s birth…”
Mycroft whispered late into the night, stopping regularly to let Sherlock comment and ask questions. He felt safe snuggled against his big brother, speaking of matters too complex for the majority of the public. When the sun began to rise and the sky took a pink shade, they got up and walked to the house slowly, wordlessly promising to do it again. That morning, Sherlock fell asleep with a smile on his lips.

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When Mycroft went away again it was distressing, but they were both confident that they could manage the distance. Sherlock hugged him hard and whispered a thank you for everything Mycroft had taught him. Mycroft promised to send him sky maps, and to write him as frequently as he could.

The year went by, and soon it was summer again. They were still inseparable, just like the previous year, but they played less and spoke more, Mycroft letting Sherlock decide their activities. Their relationship changed with them, but it only grew stronger as time passed.

 

When Sherlock was twelve and Mycroft nineteen, Sherlock deduced that Mycroft had had a boyfriend who had cheated on him. Mycroft felt betrayed and humiliated, and barely spoke the first few days. Sherlock did his best to cheer his brother up by taking on more astronomy lessons, and planet after planet, Mycroft forgot his heartbreak. He began smiling more and more every time Sherlock touched his arm to emphasize a fact or to make a point, happy to see his little brother so absorbed and passionate. They plotted Mycroft’s revenge together; Sherlock imagined the craziest plans to make his brother laugh.

 

When Sherlock was thirteen and Mycroft twenty, Mycroft came back home to find Sherlock sporting a black eye. Furious, he swore to kill the bastard that had hurt him. Sherlock tried to calm him down by telling him that he had deserved it, that he couldn’t keep his mouth closed, and it made Mycroft ten times angrier.

“How can you even think you deserve to be beaten up?! Sherlock, don’t you dare try to explain why something you said justifies a black eye. Who told you that?”

Their damn parents. Of course it was their parents. Mycroft was fuming. He spent the whole summer convincing Sherlock that no violence against him was deserved and would stay unpunished. The teenage boy that hit his baby brother peed in his pants when Mycroft confronted him, and never looked Sherlock in the eye again.

Mycroft didn’t even bother to speak to their parents about the way they treated Sherlock. He knew they would simply shrug and tell him something inane like that it could knock some sense into Sherlock, and that he needed to learn to shut his mouth. Mycroft gritted his teeth every time he found himself in the same room as them. That summer, Mycroft became conscious of the fact that he could never trust his parents to take care of his brother, and that duty was incumbent on him. He already knew it, but it struck him as an absolute truth. No one but him could be trusted to look after Sherlock.

 

When Sherlock was fourteen and Mycroft twenty-one, the boredom came back full force. But Sherlock wasn’t just bored. It was a fathomless pain that ripped his mind and threatened to tear down his mind palace. Everything felt like an incessant scream. His whole body was burning with unused energy, while the deductions flashed at him too quickly for him to grasp them. He couldn’t move, couldn't breathe, couldn’t think.
Sherlock snapped at their parents and spent his days curled on his bed, unable to sleep, overcome by the noise in his head.

When Mycroft arrived for the summer, he immediately took in the state of his brother and acted. He lifted Sherlock gently, just enough to sit on the bed, and let him down again. Sherlock’s face was pressed against his stomach, and his hands were fisted in Mycroft’s shirt, knuckles white from the force of his grip. He sobbed and sobbed, his whole body shaking from the pain that oozed out of every pore of his being.

After a while, his whimpers grew quieter and Mycroft helped him stand up. Taking Sherlock by the hand, he led them outside and they began to walk without destination. After a few miles, Sherlock suddenly dashed and Mycroft took off after him happily. They ran together, swam naked in the pond, shouted; everything they could think of to take off the edge. They looked crazy, running till they collapsed, but Sherlock could finally think again. They talked and talked, dissecting every thought and putting them in the appropriate room, until Sherlock had uncluttered his mind palace.

Exhausted at long last, he fell asleep in Mycroft’s arms, outside, where they stared at the night sky every summer. Mycroft watched him sleep, afraid of leaving him alone once more. He hoped fervently that the next time the boredom would creep into his brother’s mind, because he knew it would happen, he would be at his side.

Unfortunately, when it did happen again, he was too busy fleeing his brother to tend to him.

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Mycroft couldn’t wait to be home, even if the only sign of his impatience was the slight tremor in his right hand. He was done with university, and he was already enrolled for a place in the Secret Service. He would have to work in the field before being able to take over, but he didn’t doubt his aptitudes for one second.

However, for the moment, he was thinking about Sherlock, who had turned fifteen a few months ago and seemed to have planned a great deal of activity for the summer. As the car stopped in front of the house, Mycroft took his bag and stepped out, prepared to see his little brother greeting him like every summer for the last five years. Raising his eyes, he stopped dead in his track. Sherlock was standing on the porch, tight black trousers hugging his legs and a deep blue shirt stretching against his torso, barefoot and with a wide grin. He had grown at least fifteen centimeters and lost all traces of baby fat. He was no longer the child Mycroft had left ten months ago, but a lanky teenager whose verdigris eyes were sparkling with intelligence. Mycroft suddenly felt too warm.

“My, is everything alright?” Sherlock asked, hurrying to him. Sherlock’s voice was an earthquake in itself; deep, smoky, nothing like in his memory. It shook Mycroft’s mind to the core. Sherlock looked concerned, and Mycroft realized he hadn’t said a word yet. Kicking himself for his bizarre reaction, he smiled and told his brother he was just tired. Deeply unsettled, he followed Sherlock into the house, wondering what had just happened.

 

Sherlock began to catch up on what they both had been up to during their time apart. He wondered if Mycroft’s behaviour was the consequence of his future secret job. Mycroft couldn’t tell him any details, and for the first time in his life, Sherlock didn’t know everything about his brother. He had deduced Mycroft would be an agent for the government, and that he was probably putting up with legwork for the sole purpose of progressing quicker in the hierarchy. He had no doubt Mycroft would be controlling the whole country before his 30th birthday. At only 22, Mycroft looked ready to take over the world; tall and lean in his three-piece suit. Sherlock was dying to go to university and catch up with his brother. He now dressed to impress, imitating Mycroft’s perfect looks, because he had caught the hungry glances his peers shot him and already knew human nature well enough to use his beauty to his advantage; especially when his sharp mouth led him to perilous situations.

“I’m happy to see that the skull I sent you found a place of choice, brother mine.” It was indeed located on top of Sherlock’s favorite chair, in Mycroft’s bedroom.

“He whispers me ideas when I’m in my mind palace, My. Thank you.”

 

 

Mycroft dove in the pond first, needing to cool down after the long car trip and the shock of seeing Sherlock so… different. The cold water felt like heaven on his naked skin. After a few seconds of utter bliss, he opened his eyes to the sight of Sherlock divesting himself of his clothes. Catching a glimpse of alabaster skin, he was unable to stop himself from staring at his younger brother. He noticed Sherlock’s lean frame and the dark patch of hair between his toned legs.

He never really gave thought to Sherlock’s beauty, but at that moment, he couldn’t help but think he truly was handsome. Pretty, even. The sudden mental picture of Sherlock lying stark naked on his bed, skin flushed, knees brought up to his chest, exposing his body, made his cock thicken. Horrified about what had just crossed his mind, he looked up to a much safer view. Their gazes locked and Sherlock beamed at him, unaware. Mycroft felt his cheeks redden and he averted his eyes again. What on earth... The truth hit him like a ton of bricks: he was attracted to his younger, underage brother. Trying hard not to panic, Mycroft dove underwater once more in the hope of gaining a few seconds to sort out his thoughts. Eyes closed tightly, letting himself sink down, he quickly searched his mind palace for a solution. He was fighting the urge to throw up. The guilt and horror that were quickly taking over every centimeter of his mind paralyzed him. Think, think, think.

He couldn’t risk Sherlock deducing what was happening. He couldn’t. The consequences would be devastating for them both. Sherlock would be disgusted and would certainly feel betrayed. He wanted Mycroft as a brother and didn’t need to be lured into an incestous relationship. Mycroft was certain that Sherlock would let him do whatever he wanted; he was still insecure, and Mycroft feared that if Sherlock learnt what hideous desires Mycroft had, he would act on it to keep his brother close, even though it repelled him. He would have to wear a mask and hope his infatuation went away. He wouldn’t let Sherlock know, no matter how hard it was going to be. The lack of oxygen was making him dizzy so he resurfaced, holding onto his resolve like a lifejacket.

 

As they played in the water, Sherlock noticed that something was off. His brother seemed to act like he usually did when they were alone- fooling around, splashing him, trying to make him laugh- but every move looked calculated, and he couldn’t help but note there was a stiffness behind every smile. Brushing it off as the stress of his future career, Sherlock tried to enjoy the moments he shared with Mycroft because it would end too soon for his liking. But as he jumped into Mycroft’s arms, putting his legs around his body, his brother froze for a split-second before he distinctly made himself unclench his muscles. Hurt and taken aback, Sherlock let go and swam away from his brother.

“Sherlock, I’m sorry, I was just surprised. Come here, would you?” The tone of his voice was imploring. Reluctantly, Sherlock came back and hugged Mycroft carefully. This time, Mycroft held him for a few second before whispering with a broken voice,
“I’m sorry. Please rest assured I’m not rejecting you and I never will, brother mine. All right?”

“All right, My.” Sherlock bit his lip to refrain from asking what the problem was. His brother would tell him when he was ready. He always did, right?

 

 

After a few days of similar behaviour from his brother, Sherlock grew impatient. Mycroft hadn’t said a word yet. Frustrated, Sherlock decided to keep track of his brother’s responses to try and deduce what the issue was. Sherlock noticed a pattern: every time he reached for Mycroft, his older brother would indulge him but would then find an excuse to get away after a few seconds. When Mycroft touched Sherlock on his initiative, it was always mechanical and impersonal, and he never lingered. They didn’t cuddle on the sofa for hours on end anymore; reading to the other the interesting parts of their respective books. Sherlock knew he would sound childish and pathetic to others because it was unusual for brothers their ages to be so physical with each other, but it was what they were, or at least, had been. Sherlock missed Mycroft’s contact.

When he woke up in the middle of night feeling sad like he never did when his brother was home, he decided he had given Mycroft enough time and space. He stood up and went to his brother’s room. As he silently slipped into his big brother’s bed, Mycroft stirred in his sleep but didn’t rouse. Snuggling against him, Sherlock sighed happily and fell asleep.

When he woke up again, he was on the floor and didn’t understand what had happened until he saw the look of sheer panic on Mycroft’s face.

“My, what…”

“Sherlock, get out of my room. Now.”

His voice was as cold as ice; indifference replacing the fear in his tone so Sherlock didn't protest and returned to his room. Sherlock let himself slump against the door and began to cry silently, wondering what he had done to drive his brother away. His worst nightmare had just come true: Mycroft was abandoning him.

 

It didn’t work. He hurt Sherlock again and again by trying to protect him. Mycroft knew that Sherlock still hadn’t picked up on what the real problem was, but it was only a matter of time.

For now, Mycroft feared he was going crazy. Every touch, every smile that should have felt casual, set his whole body on fire. He daydreamed about Sherlock’s plush lips moving against his, about his gorgeous eyes looking up at him with hunger, and worst of all, about how good his naked body had felt against him in the pond. Everytime he caught himself fantasizing, he made a conscious effort to divert himself from those thoughts and silently berated his idiotic imagination. He believed he was doing okay according to the circumstances- not even masturbating, in fear of thinking of Sherlock while getting off- but when he woke up hard as rock against his little brother, he panicked and pushed Sherlock away. Idiot, idiot, idiot. The look of pure pain he saw in his brother’s eyes sickened him. He couldn’t even hope about making up for it, because he realized he needed to drive Sherlock away for good.

With his face in his hands, sitting on his bed, Mycroft asked himself how could he have been so blind.He thought it was a phase, but after what just happened, he couldn’t lie to himself anymore. He should have seen it coming. It had never been only brotherly affection for Sherlock. He had always been drawn to Sherlock, fascinated by him; wanting and succeeding in being the only person that mattered in his life. He should have ended it far sooner: the comfort, the touches, the addiction they had for each other. He only fueled it by letting Sherlock take over his whole life. When he came back that first summer, he should have kept Sherlock at arm’s length, like any other normal brother would have done.

Mycroft wanted to throw up. Pardon me, brother, I failed you. Feeling numb, he decided to take the first train to London in the morning.

 

When Sherlock woke up, still sitting against the door, Mycroft was gone. His room was empty and the bed was made. It was like Mycroft hadn’t even come home for the summer. Defeated, Sherlock lay on the floor of his brother’s room for hours, reciting every piece of data he had in his mind palace over and over in the hopes of keeping the pain away. When he broke down, it was a soul crushing sorrow. He felt like he had lost a piece of himself.

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The next few weeks were a blur. Sherlock spent every awake moment lost in his mind palace, looking for Mycroft’s presence. Everything in his brother’s room was upside down, which disarranged the whole palace. It was cold where it was previously warm; dark where the light used to be dazzling. Every memory that Sherlock touched was altered. He was going crazy. The only safe place was the astronomy room. He wasn’t able to resurface from it.

He didn’t eat, didn’t speak, and only slept when the exhaustion made him pass out. Their parents, confused by their sons’ behaviours, tried to contact Mycroft without result. After two weeks, Sherlock sank into the worst fit of boredom he had ever experienced. Without Mycroft’s presence, nothing stopped him from falling deeper and deeper into the depression. When he touched rock bottom, he figured out why he was suffering so much: ‘I’m in love. I’m in love with my brother. And he just broke my heart.’

It could only be love. How blind had he been? Mycroft would have laughed at his ignorance. Sherlock tried to pinpoint the moment when he had fallen in love, but he quickly understood that it had always been like that. He had admired and looked up to his brother since he was born. Nobody else had a remotely significant place in his life, not even their parents. Mycroft was his everything. It wasn’t even new.

Sherlock wondered what happened to cause his brother to understand it before he had even noticed, and if that was why he had left. He knew he should feel disgusted with himself, but he couldn’t help not caring. Who else would it be? It could only be Mycroft. He imagined what it would be like to kiss him and felt himself grow hard. Surprised, as he had never experienced sexual attraction before, he recalled the feeling of Mycroft’s naked body against his in the pond; the warm skin contrasting with the ice cold water. He felt dizzy with want but the sorrow of never being able to have it for real made him stop. However, if he slept, he dreamed invariably of Mycroft; waking up sticky and light-headed each time, but almost immediately feeling the depression creeping towards the edges of his mind once again. Desperate, he decided to write a letter to Mycroft, hoping that apologies were enough to make him come back. He was so sad and lost that he was ready to beg, past the point of caring about his ego.

My,
I’m so sorry. I didn’t even realize my behaviour was the reason you felt so uncomfortable that you had to leave. I promise I will be better, and will do anything in my power not to upset you again. I will get my feelings under control. Please come back. You don’t have to hide from me. I would understand if you don’t want to, though. Pardon me.
Sherlock

Ashamed by the tone of his letter, but too distressed to do better, he sent it.

 

 

When Mycroft received the letter, he was hesitant to open it. It was killing him to be away from Sherlock, but at least, Sherlock was preserved. Mycroft preferred undoubtedly to be miserable than to ruin his brother’s life. He spent his time running on the treadmill, repeating a truth with every step: it’s illegal, it’s disgusting, it will never happen, you’re a monster for wanting your little brother. When he finally collapsed he hated himself, but he couldn’t think about Sherlock in that way without feeling sick, so he did it again and again, erasing every thought of pleasure with revulsion.

He finally read the letter because it was his duty as a brother to listen to Sherlock, even if he doubted he would respond. Sherlock’s words felt like a kick to the gut. He sounded so vulnerable and sad that the guilt that rarely let Mycroft alone expanded even more. But what worried him the most was the fact that Sherlock was apologizing. Of course he’s blaming himself, you idiot, you rejected him like he was something repulsive. Sherlock was even thinking that his feelings were abnormal! Mycroft knew he wouldn’t be able to let his brother hold himself responsible. Uneasy, he called his parents to let them know he would spend the last few days before work at their house.

 

 

Mycroft was standing on the porch, unable to step inside the house. As he hesitated on whether or not to get back in the car, Sherlock opened the door. They both froze, eyes going wide while they deduced each other. Sherlock looked sick. He had lost weight and Mycroft wondered when was the last time he had slept. But what really caught Mycroft’s attention was the look on his face: behind the sadness and the tiredness, he could see an outright hunger in his brother’s eyes. Shocked, Mycroft took a step back as he felt his own body reacting.

Sherlock stuttered, looking astounded,“You’re- you’re attracted to me.” Not wanting to speak about it right there on the porch, Mycroft took Sherlock’s hand, which sent sparkles of electricity along his arm, and dragged him to the back of the garden where they always hid to watch the stars.

Through gritted teeth he said, “I’m not one of your experiments, Sherlock. Stop-”

“Mycroft, why do you think it’s an experiment? Your reaction just proved your attraction. Is it the reason you fled?” Sherlock sounded triumphant.

“Don’t play with me, brother dear. Are you so cruel that you would make fun of my … sentiments?”

“What? No! You deduced me, why can’t you understand what you’re seeing? I’m attracted to you, too.” Sherlock’s face flushed red at this admission and he lowered his head. Mycroft couldn’t believe it. He never even thought his feelings could be returned given Sherlock’s beauty and perfection, and his common and insipid self.
“But you’re... and I’m…”

“You’re what, My? You’re everything to me. I thought you knew it.” It took his breath away, the love he heard in Sherlock’s words, even after he had left him alone.

“Sherlock, please look at me.” Sherlock did as he was told, looking shyly into his brother’s eyes.

“What do you want, brother mine?”

“You, Mycroft. Please don’t leave me again.” Sherlock’s voice cracked halfway through the sentence. Tentatively, Mycroft took his brother in his arms.

“We will sort it out.” He could feel his little brother relaxing against him. Inhaling his scent, Mycroft sighed in relief. He was still terrified, but at least they were side by side. What an idiot he had been. Sherlock was attracted to him too. It raised a lot of new problems, but for the moment, he was relishing the fact that he didn’t have to hide anymore. Sherlock was not disgusted. He just wanted his big brother back; in what ways Mycroft didn’t know yet, but he would willingly do everything he could to make Sherlock happy.

Seeing that Sherlock was sleeping on his feet, and that he himself was close to being embarrassed by his body again, Mycroft said, “Let’s put you to bed, hm?”

“Will you stay with me?”

“No, brother mine. I know we used to sleep together, but for now it’s better if we take time to speak before sleeping in the same bed.” When he saw that Sherlock looked disappointed, he added, “I will stay on the chair, is that alright?” With a pout, Sherlock accepted.

While watching Sherlock sleep, he remembered the last time watched over his brother like this. He promised himself to do better in the future. In the dark, he murmured, “What is happening to us, Sherlock?”

Chapter Text

They sat together near the pond because their parents were in the garden this morning. Sherlock wanted to touch Mycroft so badly, but he knew his brother wanted to speak without being distracted. Sherlock was feeling rather smug knowing his effect on Mycroft. He couldn’t wait to learn everything about his brother’s body. He would need a room in his mind palace dedicated only to sex. Possibly a whole wing. Feeling warmer, he tried to focus.

“So, what do you want to discuss?”

“Sherlock, don’t act like you don’t know what this is about. We need to figure out what’s going on between us. I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable around me.”

“Can we kiss?”

“What? Sherlock, are you crazy? We can’t!”

“Why not? We both want it!”

“That’s not the question! It’s wrong. You’re my little brother, and even if you weren’t, you’re not even sixteen yet!”

“Who cares? I don’t. Please. I wouldn't want it with anyone else. Can you imagine me with one of those idiots?” Sherlock saw the jealousy passing in his brother’s eyes, but it was quickly replaced by a look of guilt.

“As much as I don’t want to see you with anyone else, I can’t put you in this situation, brother mine. You won’t have any difficulties finding someone else, more… suited.” Sherlock was gobsmacked. He thought they were merely going to speak logistics, not how their sentiments were wrong! And now, Mycroft was even suggesting that he could find someone else. This was going to be harder than he initially thought.

“Mycroft, you asked me yesterday what I wanted. I want you. No, please let me finish. You’re afraid to ruin me- and, by the way, I’m really surprised you’re able to even form such idiotic thoughts- and you feel responsible for me. I’m not a child anymore, as you seem to have noticed rather eagerly. I don’t need you to protect me from the world, but I need you in my life, as my equal. I don’t care if it’s illegal or morally dubious. I want you… and I know you want me too. Please.”

Mycroft’s expression was unreadable. “I will never pardon myself if this turns badly. Please promise to tell me if you’re not okay.”

“I promise.”

Mycroft took his hand and smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “We will see how it goes, okay?”

“My, you just made me promise to tell you if I’m not okay. Could you please tell me what’s wrong?”

“This is wrong, Sherlock. You’re fifteen. I’m your brother. I’m the last person you should want.”

“You’re the only person I can want. I won’t find anyone more suited, as you said. Nobody understands me except you. They just want to use me. Nobody cares about me like you do.”

“That’s precisely why we shouldn’t do this. Because I care about you so much that the very idea of hurting you makes me sick. My desires are indecent, Sherlock.”

“I’ve never cared about decency a day of my life. You won’t hurt me. Please, My. Please. Nothing make sense without you.” Sherlock could see Mycroft surrender. He took a risk and hugged him, burying his nose against his brother’s neck.

“I never stood a chance, right?” Mycroft asked. Sherlock lifted his face to look into his brother’s eyes. Mycroft was truly smiling now. Reassured, Sherlock smiled back.

“Never, brother mine.”

“I don’t want to rush things, though. You have no experience whatsoever, and I don’t want to overwhelm you.”

”But we will have sex?”

Mycroft hesitated. Sherlock sensed that Mycroft was still reluctant to change their relationship. “Only if you want to. But not before you turn sixteen.”

“But, My-”

“This is non-negotiable, Sherlock. I won’t add child molesting to the list of illegal things I’m doing by allowing this to happen.” Disappointed and already planning on how to make Mycroft change his mind, but happy that he convinced him to at least go this way, Sherlock suggested that they swim for a while before heading home for lunch.

 

 

As he watched Sherlock undress, Mycroft cursed himself for accepting to take a dip. Of course Sherlock was testing the limits, that’s what he did on a daily basis. Mycroft forced himself to cool down. He wouldn’t scare his brother away, especially after the heart-warming confession he had just heard. What had he done to deserve him? Sherlock was so brave. Mycroft hadn’t stood a chance against him, as they both knew he couldn’t refuse Sherlock anything.

He thought about what he would have needed when he was younger. Someone he could have trusted with his body and his heart. Someone who would have cared. Someone who wouldn’t have taken advantage of his naivety and who wouldn’t have broken his heart by cheating on him later on. He could be that for Sherlock. He needed to protect him, as he always did. Why not like this, too? Mycroft still felt immensely guilty, but he was tired of fighting against his desires.

He just hoped Sherlock wouldn’t be too forthright with his wants, counting on his inexperience to slow it down. As if, he laughed, as Sherlock blew a kiss in his direction before jumping in the water. Mycroft joined him, swimming unhurriedly, enjoying the buzz of desire low in his stomach, the cold water against his goosebumped flesh, the warmth radiating from Sherlock, who was suddenly very near. He moved inexorably forward, feeling the stones on the bottom of the pond rolling under his feet, attracted by his brother like a moth to a light. Their legs touched and it took his breath away, the feeling of Sherlock’s smooth skin against him.

“Tell me if it’s too much.”

“My, I want it all. Stop worrying and kiss me.” So Mycroft did. He wrapped one arm around Sherlock and tugged him close, and slowly, slowly, as he slipped his hand through his curls, as he felt their bodies touching more and more- their cocks bobbing against their bellies- as he saw Sherlock’s pupils dilating and his breath quickening, he captured his brother’s mouth with his own, just a light press of lips. He shuddered. How could it be so wrong and feel so right? He deepened the kiss, opening his mouth but letting Sherlock set the pace. Tentatively, Sherlock licked into his mouth and let out a small, helpless moan at the sensation. Mycroft’s grip around his brother tightened when Sherlock put his legs around his body. Mycroft kissed and kissed him, drowning into the wet and sweet sensation of their tongues moving against each other. Sherlock was sloppy and eager, and it made Mycroft crazy with lust.
When the urgency became unbearable, he softly extricated himself from Sherlock’s embrace.

Sherlock let out a whine at the loss. He looked positively debauched with his lips wet and reddened from the kissing. Mycroft was sure he looked just as wanton, because he felt rather weak in the knees. He wanted to worship every centimeter of Sherlock’s body, right then and there. He would have taken him that instant if he wasn’t concerned about Sherlock being overwhelmed. So, instead of giving in to his desires, he tried to ignore his throbbing cock and held Sherlock close again, kissing his hair tenderly.

Sherlock sighed. “Does it always feel this good?”

“It never felt like that for me before, brother dear.” He could feel Sherlock smiling against his chest.

“Really? Are you now convinced it’s a good idea, My?”

“Don’t be so smug. I admit you were right, but it won’t be easy. We will have to be precautious. No one can see us.”

“I know. I don’t care, I just want to be with you.”

Mycroft smiled and took his brother’s hand, helped him out of the water and dried him off, careful to touch Sherlock in a chaste way. He was still his big brother and couldn’t imagine stopping the little fraternal gestures and reminders that showed how much he cared about Sherlock. It eased the guilt, too. He was not taking advantage of Sherlock or forcing him into an incestuous relationship. He was not. As they went back to the house, exchanging smiles and glances, Mycroft let the self-reproaches fade away a little. They were going to be okay.

Chapter Text

Sherlock struggled to contain his excitement and look his normal, disinterested self. He was sitting in front of his parents, trying hard to concentrate on the meal and the discussion but thinking only about Mycroft, naked and happy after the kisses they had shared.

He wanted him so bad. He had briefly felt Mycroft’s hard cock against his belly when they were in the pond, and even if he was feeling nervous about not knowing how to pleasure him, he wanted to touch. The need to be closer to his brother was stronger than anything he had ever felt. His desires were blurry, but he trusted Mycroft to teach him everything. He only had to convince him not to wait six more months.
As he imagined what it would feel like to be taken by his brother, he sensed Mycroft’s gaze on him. They made eye contact. Sherlock, feeling mischievous, displayed the naughty thoughts he had by biting his lip and raising his eyebrows slightly. Mycroft seemed to be unfazed, but Sherlock knew better. It was taking his brother every ounce of willpower he could muster to not touch him. He was most certainly hard right now, his lust hidden behind a polite mask for their parent’s benefit and, he thought, to preserve his brother.

Sherlock didn’t even bother hiding his want to Mycroft, as he knew it would only help him to get what he lusted after quickier. He was trying to look in control, but he knew that Mycroft had deduced how nervous he was with a look to his blushing cheeks and neck.

Sherlock tried once more to make his brother react, this time by licking his lips very slowly, and it worked, judging by the murderous look on his brother face. Mycroft asked their parents politely if he could leave the table. He stood up, looking at Sherlock with a confident smile that screamed two can play this game.

He informed their parents he was going to take a shower, clearly implying other activities, and smirked for Sherlock’s benefit. Sherlock gulped at the thought of his brother pleasuring himself. As he stood to follow Mycroft, Mummy stopped him and said he could wait a few more minutes if he couldn't behave properly. In agony, Sherlock watched Mycroft go up the stairs and open the door to the bathroom. With a wink, he disappeared inside.

 

 

As soon as the door closed, Mycroft yanked his pants down and freed his cock. He wanked quickly, trying to muffle his moans as best as he could by biting on his lip, hard. He was teetering on the edge embarrassingly quickly. Sherlock was going to be the death of him, he was sure of it. It was the first time he had allowed himself to think about his brother while touching himself, and god, it was heaven. He visualized Sherlock’s pretty mouth and thought of what wicked tricks he could teach him. The thought of Sherlock using his tongue to pleasure him was already too much. But what pushed him over the edge was the image of Sherlock, on his knees, face against the mattress, arse in the air, one hand on each cheek, spreading them and displaying his hole for Mycroft to lick. He came hard, doubling over with the force of his orgasm. Still panting and feeling dizzy, he finished undressing and climbed into the shower.

The water washed the evidence away. He let his head rest against the cold wall, trying to catch his breath. The tension he had held for hours slowly left his body, but the fantasies wouldn’t leave him alone. Now that he had allowed himself to think about having sex with Sherlock, all the delicious, dirty things they could do together crossed his mind. He wouldn't act on them yet, but god it felt good to just imagine it. He washed himself quickly, not wanting to lose more time than necessary without his brother.

As he dried himself, still a bit dazed and wondering if it had ever been this good, he constructed a plan to persuade his brother to let it go for the moment. He shouldn’t have added fuel to the fire by advertising so obviously what he was going to do, but even his patience had limits. Sherlock had no idea what he was trying to make happen, but hell, he was doing everything in his power to make Mycroft lose it. He tucked himself back into his pants and trousers, and groaned at the state of his shirt. He hadn’t even thought about pulling it up to avoid soiling it. Passing it quickly under the water, he hoped he had the time to go back to his room to change before confronting his brother.

As he reached for the door handle, Sherlock surged into the room. Mycroft knew that Sherlock could read everything he needed to know by the state of his shirt and the blood he tasted on his lips from biting too hard on it. Sherlock’s pupils were huge. Gathering every ounce of energy left in him, Mycroft pleaded, “Sherlock, please, stop doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“You know what. Trying to make me lose my mind by teasing me. I assure you there’s no need to push me more,” he sighed. “You think you want to have sex, but you’re not ready, brother mine.”

“I am! I want you so much I can’t even think straight. You should have waited for me.”

“Oh, really? Should I have? What if I do this?” He crowded him against the door, forearms braced on either side of Sherlock’s head. “And this?” He put one thigh between Sherlock’s legs and ran his nose against his neck. “And this?” Mycroft took Sherlock’s ear between his teeth and pulled on it.
Sherlock was panting, pinned against the door, at Mycroft’s mercy. “Still sure of yourself, brother mine?”

“I… I…” He looked overwhelmed, so Mycroft gently let go and brushed his fingers against his brother’s cheek to reassure him.

Sherlock composed himself.
“I asked you to treat me like your equal, remember?”

“You are, Sherlock. You’re inexperienced, but it doesn’t mean you are inferior in any way. You are only fifteen.”

“Please stop reminding me. I hate being younger than you.” Mycroft smiled softly. Of course. Sherlock would have come with him to university when he was nine, had it been a possibility.

“You will thank me later for taking it slow. We have time, Sherlock.” What he really meant was I’ll never not want you. Sherlock caught it, naturally.

“Are you sure?”

“I promise.”

“My… I’m afraid the attraction you feel will fade before we even have the chance to do anything. I don’t want to be lonely again.”

“I won’t let you down, Sherlock. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to in order to keep me by your side.”

“Have I ever done something I didn’t want? I thought you were the clever one.”

Mycroft laughed. “Of course. My bad. Now, will you please let me change clothes? Alone, preferably.”

Sherlock let him go, but not before asking for a kiss. Mycroft happily obliged. Their lips locked, and it felt like coming back home. It was only the second time they had kissed, and Mycroft was already addicted. I will never let you go, Mycroft thought. The kiss deepened when Sherlock tasted tentatively with his tongue, and, oh, was he really getting hard again? He had thought he was done with that for a few hours at least. It seemed that Sherlock made the experience he had absolutely useless. Mycroft got lost in the sensation of Sherlock’s warm body against him, holding him tight, softly caressing his brother’s lips with his own. Breathless, he pulled back a bit to rub his nose against his. The fondness he felt for Sherlock threatened to spill out. After a last lingering kiss to his brother’s forehead, he left the room.

 

 

They were lying on a blanket, in their part of the garden, enjoying the late afternoon warmth. Sherlock was resting his head against his brother’s torso, feeling safe in his brother’s arms. He would be alone again the next day. With a pang to the heart, he imagined spending months without seeing Mycroft. Now that they were even more inseparable, it was going to be increasingly painful. Sherlock thought about all they had done together in those last few days of utter happiness. They had stolen kisses as often as they could, and Mycroft had let Sherlock sleep in his bed to spend more time together. It was bliss to fall asleep and to wake up against him, even if it was very clear that nothing more than kisses would happen. Everytime he had woken up hard during these nights, he had wanted so badly to be touched by Mycroft. He had behaved, knowing that Mycroft wouldn’t like to be woken up in the middle of the night by a horny Sherlock. Well, he would certainly would have liked it if he hadn’t set himself those ridiculous rules. It was torture to keep his hands out of his pants.

Sherlock felt himself grow hard as he thought of their nights together. He quickly made sure that no one could see them, and turned his face against his brother’s neck to kiss him behind his ear. He had wanted to do that since Mycroft had played with his earlobe in the bathroom. He could feel the intake of breath from his brother. Deciding that it was his last chance to make Mycroft change his mind, Sherlock sat up and straddled him. He leant down again and began to cover his brother’s neck with kisses, licking and nibbling between each caress of his lips, trying to make up for his lack of experience with enthusiasm. He could feel Mycroft harden beneath him. In response, he ground his own erection against his brother stomach.

“Sherlock…” Mycroft breathed.

“My, please, let me at least touch you once before you go back to London.”

“Not now. Let’s come back tonight.” Surprised, Sherlock looked up and saw outright hunger in his brother’s eyes. He couldn’t believe it had worked. If he was honest with himself, he was becoming a bit desperate. Mycroft had seemed to be in total control of his reactions and not ready to concede even the tiniest thing to Sherlock. Satisfied, he kissed him softly on the lips and they continued to cuddle till the sun disappeared, ignoring their erections now that they knew the wait would end soon.

 

They came back late that night, going once again to their spot where they had spent so many nights speaking about stars and planets and nebulas. But for the moment, Sherlock couldn’t feel the easy company they usually shared; only nervousness about messing it up. As they sat down, Mycroft saw that Sherlock was apprehensive and took him in his arms, murmuring sweet nothings into his ear to soothe him. He put his index finger under Sherlock’s chin and made him look up into his eyes. Sherlock shivered as he saw the love and tenderness emanating from Mycroft. They kissed, and all the tension left Sherlock’s body. He melted against his big brother, letting him take the lead. Mycroft licked into his mouth, his hands mapping the contours of Sherlock’s body. As he cupped his arse, making Sherlock gasp, Mycroft smiled devilishly and lifted Sherlock. Suddenly, Sherlock found himself on his back, legs wrapped around Mycroft, who was leaning above him, teeth grazing along his neck. Sherlock sought friction as he pushed his still clothed cock against his brother’s, bucking his hips up again and again. They both let out a moan at the sensation. Sherlock was so close already.

“My… I don’t want to come yet.” Mycroft smiled and asked him if he could undress him. Sherlock would have rolled his eyes at his brother’s cautious tone if he wasn’t already almost undone. He raised his hand to the buttons of Mycroft’s shirt, wanting, needing more skin. He fumbled with them for a few seconds before Mycroft took over, revealing his fair skin and the patch of freckles that went down his chest, highlighting the discrete muscles of his belly. Sherlock found him beautiful. He sat up to get rid of his clothes too, but Mycroft stopped him.

“Please… let me do it for you,” Mycroft said. Sherlock acquiesced, and as Mycroft undid button after button, he kissed his way down Sherlock’s body. When he reached the navel, Mycroft circled it with his tongue, making Sherlock’s body arch off the ground.

“Too much?” asked Mycroft, licking at the fine line of hair that went down towards Sherlock’s crotch.

“N-No… more…” Sherlock felt like his body was going to snap, and Mycroft hadn’t even touched him yet.

Mycroft divested Sherlock from his trousers and pants. He licked one slow stripe along Sherlock inner thigh, which made Sherlock shiver, before coming back up to kiss him once more. They looked at each other and Sherlock saw the question in his brother’s eyes. He nodded imperceptibly. Mycroft let his hand brush against his stomach, and finally, finally, took his stiff cock firmly and stroked it from root to tip, spreading the precome with his thumb as he grazed over the head.

“Ah... ah... My!” Sherlock’s knees were shaking as he moaned helplessly, his mind whiting out, narrowing down to only the feel on Mycroft’s hand on him. He clutched desperately onto his brother as his cock pulsed and he came all over himself and Mycroft’s hand.

 

“Gorgeous,” Mycroft said, laying kisses on Sherlock’s face as his brother slowly came back to himself. “You’re making me crazy. Is it okay if I touch myself now?” “Please.”

Mycroft sat back on his heels and quickly opened his flies. He let out a moan at the sensation of his cock finally springing free and closed his hand around it. He knew he wouldn't last, and at this point, he didn’t care. He felt like they’d had days of foreplay, and he needed to come this instant. Sherlock having an orgasm was the single most beautiful thing he had seen in his life, and damn, it was hot. The muscles of his back tightened as he felt his climax approaching. He looked down at Sherlock, still covered in come, who shyly licked his lips while staring at Mycroft’s cock. That did it. Mycroft came all over Sherlock, shouting his name. As he slowly came back to himself, he put his arms around Sherlock’s shoulders, holding him close and causing their mingled come to smear between them. He was suddenly feeling overwhelmed by the affection he had towards his brother.

“I love you, Sherlock,” he whispered against his ear. He had never said it before because it was useless to state a fact, right? Of course he loved his brother. It was clear in everything he did. His actions were enough. But now, he wanted Sherlock to know that he loved him, in every way possible.

He felt Sherlock move and lifted his head to look into his eyes. “I love you,” he repeated firmly.

“I love you, too, My,” Sherlock answered with a trembling voice. Surprised, Mycroft saw that tears were clinging to Sherlock’s long eyelashes.

“Are you alright?”

“Yes. I feel, I feel…” Sherlock was sobbing now, tears falling freely, his fingers digging painfully into Mycroft’s back. Mycroft kissed each tear tenderly as he rubbed his nose against Sherlock’s cheeks, trying not to do something wrong again. It had obviously been too much. He had messed up.

“Do you need me to leave you alone for a while, brother mine?”

“No! Please stay with me. Can you hold me… tighter?”

So Mycroft did, letting his body sink down a bit but not resting his full weight on his brother, and tightening his grip around him. He made sure Sherlock felt held but not restrained. He knew that when his brother was feeling overwhelmed, the right amount of pressure was the key to calm him down.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock, that was too intense for a first time.” Mycroft felt ashamed for having caused Sherlock to feel so vulnerable.

“No, no, I just feel… so loved and-and.. unconditionally yours. I didn’t want to cry, but you said you loved me, and…” Sherlock looked at him with an expression of such love and trust that Mycroft felt his heart swell in his chest.

“I do. I love you so much, Sherlock, words will never be enough.” Mycroft lay down on his side, pulling his brother on top of him. Sherlock snuggled impossibly closer and laid his head down on Mycroft’s chest, just where his heart was. They stayed there for a while, Sherlock listening to his brother’s heartbeat as he put every sensation and memory into the new room of his mind palace, and Mycroft looking up at the stars. When Sherlock shivered because he was cold, they put their clothes back on, making faces at the stickiness, and went back to Mycroft’s room to sleep for a few hours.

They woke up early and kissed for the remaining hours they had together. After a few hours of careful touching from Mycroft, Sherlock couldn’t stand it anymore and begged for release. Mycroft happily obliged but didn’t act on his own hard-on, simply enjoying his brother’s muffled cries of pleasure with each stroke. He came hard, moaning into Mycroft’s neck. It was even more beautiful in the morning light, Mycroft mused, but he forced himself to focus on Sherlock and not on his throbbing cock. He could wait. He wanted Sherlock to be totally at ease with him, and he needed Sherlock to know that he would make his well-being and pleasure his priority, always. He got up to fetch a wet towel and carefully wiped his brother’s belly before coming back to bed. They cuddled until he had to go, but not before sharing a last steamy kiss that left them both breathless.

Chapter Text

Sherlock exited the train as soon as it stopped, not wanting to lose one more second away from Mycroft. He had bounced on his seat the whole way to London, and now that he was finally here, he couldn’t wait to be reunited with his brother and to see the city. Mycroft had his first free weekend since he had begun training to become whatever he would be, and they intended to make the most of their time together. He had missed him like crazy. He was used to being without his brother, as they had to do it every year, but it had been different now that they shared this new intimacy. Sherlock craved Mycroft’s hands on his body and his lips against his.

As he scanned the crowd, he noticed Mycroft standing on the platform. Sherlock was startled by his new appearance: his brother had gained a lot of muscles in four months. He had already lost all the extra weight he had as a child before going to university, but he was more slim than muscular at that time. Now, the new suit he was wearing emphasized his broad shoulder and bigger arms. By the time Sherlock joined Mycroft, at least two women and a man had done a double take. But Sherlock wasn’t feeling jealous in the least, because his brother was devouring him with his eyes, his gaze going up and down his body. Sherlock straightened up, proud to be the center of his brother’s attention and knowing that he, too, had changed. As they stood mere centimeters apart from each other, he noted that he was almost as tall as Mycroft now, thanks to the growth spurt that had happened in the last few months.

They stood there for a few seconds, not speaking, not touching, only deducing each other. After a few moments, Mycroft smiled and took his brother in his arms.

“How was your trip?”

“Fine, My. I missed you,” he said, breathing in his brother’s scent. God, missing was not strong enough. Mycroft let him go and looked him in the eyes with a piercing expression.

“I missed you, too. Let’s go somewhere private so I can kiss you.”

Sherlock blushed but nodded, feeling better already now that they were together, even though they would have to be discreet. He resisted the urge to take his brother’s hand as they exited the station and headed to Mycroft’s flat. In the cab Sherlock looked shyly at his brother, who was seated at his side. Their gazes locked and Mycroft smiled softly. Sherlock couldn’t contain his happiness anymore and grinned like a fool, which made Mycroft burst into laughter because he was equally unable to hide the joy he felt, and took him in his arms. Sherlock laid his head on his brother’s shoulder and stayed there until they reached Mycroft’s flat.

 

The door was barely closed behind them when Sherlock launched himself at Mycroft, who, taken aback, managed to catch him but not to keep his balance, and they both fell back on the sofa that was thankfully situated only one meter from the door. Sherlock caught a glimpse of the very small but clean living room from the corner of his eye but was otherwise too occupied with Mycroft to pay attention to what was around them. He kissed him passionately, pouring all the love and longing he couldn't express in the time they were apart. They both sighed in relief at the feeling of their limbs entwining. He could feel Mycroft’s cock growing hard against his and let a gasp out at the delicious friction. They ground against each other a few more times before Sherlock urged his brother to take his clothes off. He felt like he was going to die if he couldn’t get closer to his brother. They undressed quickly, barely able to let go of the other to divest themselves of their clothes.
Once they were both naked, Mycroft took Sherlock by the hand and led him into his bedroom. They climbed on the bed, Mycroft sitting on his heels between Sherlock’s legs, drinking in the sight of his brother naked on his bed. He was splayed out before him, his skin flushed, his muscles tense and his cock rock hard. Mycroft took it into his hand, making Sherlock whimper and wriggle, spreading his legs even wider before bringing his knees up to his chest. The position allowed Mycroft to catch a flash of the pink circle of flesh that was hidden between Sherlock’s lush cheeks. Positively mad with lust, Mycroft rasped, “Sherlock… Do not play with fire.”

“Please… I’ve touched myself there everyday since you left for London, imagining it was you.”

The image of Sherlock fingering himself while thinking about him was too much. Mycroft slowly dragged one finger along Sherlock’s body, provoking goosebumps and little spasms as he scratched gently at his ribs, his belly, the inside of a thigh, and finally let his hand rest again on Sherlock’s tightly drawn balls, his other hand still pumping his cock. Sherlock whimpered.

“I’m… I’m going to come, My-”

Mycroft brushed the tip of his finger against Sherlock’s hole, making Sherlock tense up and tip over the edge; coming all over himself, painting his stomach with ribbons of his release. Mycroft lay against him and held him close while his brother recovered. He would never grow tired of seeing his brother come undone.

“I know you want to fuck me. Why didn’t you let me have more of that?”

“Because we’re taking it slow. Don’t worry, we have two full days to have fun.”

“Hmm. What about you?” asked Sherlock, already eager again.

“Would you touch me?” Instead of answering, Sherlock took Mycroft’s cock into his hand.

“Tell me if I do it right.”

Mycroft would have told him he couldn’t do it wrong if he wasn’t already half out of his mind with the sensations of Sherlock stroking him.

“Not gonna last. Harder, please… ah!” Sherlock’s eyes were dark, intense, and firmly fixed on his face, as if he was cataloging and memorizing each reaction. He probably was, thought Mycroft, as he bit his lip and closed his eyes, trying not to come immediately.

Sherlock didn’t understand slow or moderate but they needed to take their time, not only for him but for Mycroft, too. He wanted to stretch their first times as much as possible, and to prolongate the sensations that came with first experiences. Every second with his brother was precious and should be treated like a present, because it was one. This was not something that could be rushed. With every man he had had sex with before, it was a question of power and selfish pleasure. He had to unlearn everything to let Sherlock in. No more walls, he thought.

Mycroft looked up at Sherlock, who was still fascinated by what he was doing to his older brother, and came while looking him in the eyes, trying to share everything he felt.

“Love you, My.”

“I love you, too.”

Both sated, they cuddled until the stickiness on their stomachs became impossible to ignore any longer. They showered together and dressed before heading outside, as Mycroft had promised Sherlock to show him London.

Chapter Text

They were walking together in the streets of London, not really following a path but simply letting their steps take them deeper into the city. Mycroft was only looking at Sherlock, who seemed to be having the time of his life, mapping the streets for his mind palace and deducing every passerby. His brother indeed looked happy, with his cheeks and nose tinged pink by the cold November wind, his hair a mess because of their previous activities. He decided that Sherlock could do with a warmer coat, though. The one he brought was definitively too thin for the capital’s weather.

“Sherlock, let’s go this way.”

“Why? Did you plan something?”

“Maybe. Come on. We will have just enough time to get there before it closes.” He saw Sherlock go into full deduction mode as his eyes narrowed. Mycroft couldn’t repress a laugh and sped up, knowing he would have to be quicker if he wanted to surprise his younger brother.

 

They arrived a few minutes later in front of a rather posh looking shop located in a Victorian building. Sherlock raised his eyebrows at the vitrine. The designer clothes looked like they were of the best quality, but it was neither his style nor Mycroft’s. They entered the boutique and Sherlock looked in wonder at the wooden mannequins, the big leather sofas, and the motorcycle occupying the center of the room. Mycroft didn’t spare a glance at the decor and went directly to the back of the shop where the coats were displayed.
An employee came and asked them how he could help. Mycroft smiled at Sherlock and answered, “This young man needs a new coat. Could you please get him to try the Milford?”

“Of course. It would look good on his frame, but it may be a little big around the shoulders.”

Mycroft nodded and waved at Sherlock to go to the changing room. Thrilled but determined not to look like an overexcited teenager, Sherlock followed the employee. After divesting himself of his coat, Sherlock put the new one on.

“This coat is made from pure Irish wool tweed bonded with an ultra-light microporous film to make it waterproof without altering the comfort and breathability.”

As the employee spoke, Sherlock admired his new appearance in the big mirror. It was indeed a little bit too broad for him, but he didn’t doubt that it would fit him perfectly in a few months. It already complimented his height and, when he put the collar up, his cheekbones. He tried to turn a bit and the coat twirled around him. Perfect, he thought. He caught Mycroft’s gaze in his reflection and smiled. His brother was looking at him with a proud air.

“Can you afford it?”

“Don’t worry, I will soon make enough money to buy such necessities.”

“Necessities? My, it’s certainly a small fortune. I don’t want you to feel like you have to buy me things.” The ‘so you don’t feel as much guilt’ remained unsaid because of the presence of the employee, who said that the coat cost £1350. Mycroft just shrugged and told him they would take it. He paid and they exited the store, after the employee had cut the price tag out.

 

Sherlock spun around, loving the dramatic effect of the coat with every movement he made.

“Thank you, My. It’s perfect.”

“You know, I didn’t buy it to alleviate my conscience, or to make you feel like you owe me something, but because you looked cold and I love you.”

“I love you, too. Can we hold hands?”

Sherlock saw Mycroft hesitate for a second; certainly calculating the risks of being seen with someone much younger, and even if they didn’t look alike, their eyes and gazes were just this side of too similar to be a coincidence. Sherlock knew his brother’s career was important to him, and he was about to tell him that it was okay if they didn’t hold hands in public when Mycroft took his hand.

“Of course. Let’s go back to the flat. We will go out again later to eat.”

 

When they first got together, Sherlock hadn’t given thought to the fact that they had to be a secret. He had been too surprised that Mycroft felt the same at first, and then too happy to stop and think about the implications. He really hadn’t minded keeping it to themselves back in the country. But here in London, where too many men and women looked at Mycroft like he was something they wanted to have, it felt good to hold hands and to claim him as taken. Mycroft was his. He knew the coat made him look older, and he made his gait as imperious as he could to try to gain a few more years. Oh, he surely didn't look half as elegant as Mycroft, but it would do. He doubted someone would notice the age gap. They just had to avoid anyone that knew Mycroft.

He smiled at Mycroft, happy to be with him in a place where they were free. Suddenly he needed to kiss him, and he went faster, pulling Mycroft with him. His brother seemed to understand the urge to be alone as well. Mycroft burst into laughter and began to run with him.

 

 

They looked crazy running and laughing together, Sherlock’s coat flapping behind him, but Mycroft couldn’t have cared less. He had many happy memories with his brother, but the sheer euphoria he felt then was new. When his building came into view, he reluctantly let Sherlock’s hand go so they wouldn’t be seen by his neighbors. He knew they wouldn’t be able to be so indiscreet for long; he would soon have too much responsibility and power to allow such dangerous behaviour. But for now, he needed to show the world that Sherlock was taken. Damn the discretion. Sherlock was only fifteen, why was every passerby eyefucking him? The need to kiss him sharpened. It was not an urge anymore, it was a fire burning inside him. You’re mine, he thought, and made eye contact with Sherlock, letting him see the sheer possessiveness he felt. The teenager blushed as they ran to the door. Mycroft fumbled with the key for a small eternity before the door opened and they were finally on their own.

Panting, Mycroft closed the distance between them and cradled Sherlock’s face in his hands. He caressed the skin below his fingers, eliciting shivers as he brushed Sherlock’s neck, lips, and cheekbones. Their breaths mingled, and he slowly closed the distance between their lips. They kissed gently, pouring all the love they had for each other into the kiss.

The kiss grew hot and the new coat fell to the floor, followed by their clothes. Mycroft lifted Sherlock and carried him bridal style to the bed, where they kissed and stroked and licked for hours, bringing each other to completion again and again.

Exhausted, they fell asleep in a tight embrace in the early hours of the morning.

Chapter Text

Sherlock woke up first on Sunday morning. Mycroft was still sleeping soundly, utterly worn out by the previous night’s activities. Sherlock admired his brother’s naked form. He was splayed out on the bed, his legs entangled with the blanket, displaying the rest of his body. Sherlock looked at his brother's breathing for a while, enjoying the slow movement of his muscular stomach with every breath. As he began to play connect the dots with the freckles on Mycroft’s neck and torso, slowly making his way down, his cock began to stir and thicken. Curious, Sherlock grazed a nipple, which made his brother stir but not rouse from his sleep. They were both fully hard now. He looked at the glistening tip of Mycroft’s length. Silently, he went down his brother’s body as he rubbed his nose against his belly. He hesitantly kissed the tip of his cock, relishing the salty taste of precum. Mycroft moaned and slurred, “Sherlock- what are you doing?”

“I want to suck you.”

Mycroft swallowed hard, leaning back on the bed. “Oh, God... “ Considering this as permission to continue, Sherlock tentatively licked a stripe along the shaft, which made Mycroft’s cock jump. It was big and leaking, and Sherlock was not sure about how he should proceed.

“I don’t know what to do.”

“Take it into your mouth, yes, like that, oooh-” Sherlock sucked lightly on the head as he struggled to keep his teeth out of the way. He could feel the saliva pooling into his mouth and began to choke a little as he tried to take more. He sensed Mycroft’s intense gaze on him as he bobbed his head up and down again, persevering.

“Oh my god, Sherlock... “

Sherlock was cataloging every reaction from his brother as he tried to repeat the motions that seemed to elicit the low moans escaping Mycroft’s throat. His jaw started to ache and he pulled back a little to breathe.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes, I just…”

“Let me show you,” Mycroft said with bated breath. Sherlock complied as they exchanged places on the bed. He needed data. Moreover, he had already deduced that his brother preferred to please his partner rather than being the recipient of the attention.

After kissing a few moles on Sherlock’s stomach, Sherlock felt Mycroft slowly wrap his tongue around the tip of his cock. It felt deliciously hot and wet, but above all, loving. Mycroft was only using the slightest bobbing motion, unlike Sherlock did, and was simply alternating between sucking on the tip and licking the frenulum, not breaking eye contact with him, showing him how much he loved him. Sherlock felt so cared for he had to close his eyes to avoid letting any tears escape. The feeling was breathtaking.

After a few minutes of gentle sucking, Mycroft began to take Sherlock’s cock deeper and deeper as he created more suction, which made Sherlock arch off the bed. When Mycroft took him to the root, lips tightly sealed around his cock and nose buried against his pubic hair, it became too much, and Sherlock could feel the muscles of his back contracting and relaxing as his orgasm approached. The idea of being deep inside his brother’s mouth was almost as exciting as the sensation. Mycroft moved up a bit and locked his lips around the head, using his right hand to jerk Sherlock off. Seeing his brother wanking him into his mouth, using his saliva as lube, coupled with the hotness and wetness of his mouth, made Sherlock come, screaming out as he did.

 

 

Sherlock didn’t take any time to recover as he immediately pushed Mycroft against the pillow and applied himself to recreate what his brother had shown him. And God he was doing a great job of it.

By the time Mycroft came into his brother’s mouth, making Sherlock choke a bit, his brother was hard again. Once Mycroft had come down from his orgasm, Sherlock seemed to decide he had been patient long enough. He sucked on one finger as he sat up on his knees and spread them as far as he could. When he reached behind him with his finger, Mycroft let out a moan.

“Are you trying to kill me?”

“Please, My, I want you to do it,” he said, breathless, as he rubbed his wet finger against his hole.

“Shit. Alright, let me just grab the lube,” said Mycroft. He reached for the lube that was hidden between the bedframe and the mattress (he knew Sherlock had found it 30 minutes after arriving) and told Sherlock, “On your hands and knees.”

Sherlock complied, trembling with need and anticipation. The view in front of Mycroft was even better than what he had dreamt of so often. Mycroft was fighting the urge to spread those lush cheeks and to lick him. Taking a deep breath to calm himself, he coated two fingers with lube.

“If it hurts, tell me immediately.” Sherlock nodded, his fists balling up as he gasped in pleasure when Mycroft softly caressed his perineum. Mycroft eased one lubed finger inside him slowly, careful not to hurt his brother. Sherlock’s head tipped back, his back arching, and a soft groan escaped his lips. Mycroft’s eyes were glued to his disappearing finger. Sherlock was obviously used to the sensation as he didn’t even grimace at the stretch. So Mycroft began to thrust his finger, slowly starting to massage Sherlock’s prostate with each pass.

“My-Mycroft, more…”

Mycroft obliged and added a finger, which made Sherlock cry out. He felt himself grow hard again and began to pull at his cock in rhythm with his fingers.

The high, desperate noise Sherlock was making in the back of his throat as he took the fingers in deeper had Mycroft jerking off even faster- and he was couldn’t help but wonder just how tight and hot Sherlock would be around his cock, because the sensation around his fingers was already so intense. He rubbed at Sherlock’s prostate harder, beginning to think he could make him come like that. Sherlock had of course kept the fact that he could come untouched to himself, the little tease.

Mycroft gave his wrist a vicious twist and then Sherlock was coming; coming so hard that he tensed up in Mycroft’s hold, letting out the most gorgeous moan of Mycroft’s name.

“Holy shit,” panted Mycroft, staggered, as Sherlock’s head fell back onto the pillow, his walls contracting and releasing around Mycroft’s fingers, fluttering wildly in orgasm.

He stroked his cock twice before coming too, painting Sherlock’s arse with his release.

Exhausted, he lay down and took Sherlock in his arms, kissing him again and again while they both tried to regulate their breathing.

“Does that mean you will fuck me now?”

“Sherlock, language. And no, not before your birthday.” Sherlock groaned at that.

“Do you still blame yourself? Because I don’t. I’m happy, My.”

“I still think I’m taking advantage of you, yes. But I’m happy too, Sherlock.”

“Love you.”

Mycroft buried his nose into Sherlock’s curls, relishing the scent of his brother. They cuddled for a while before deciding to head out to eat.

 

 

They were walking together again, simply enjoying each other’s company and trying hard not to think about Sherlock’s imminent departure. Sherlock almost collided with his brother as Mycroft froze for a second before shrugging and carrying on walking like nothing had happened. He hastily whispered to Sherlock, “Whatever you hear, please don’t react.”

“My, what-?”

“Myke! How are you?” Sherlock was interrupted by a rather handsome looking man, who seemed to be around Mycroft’s age, dressed in luxurious clothes. He didn’t spare a glance at Sherlock, and positively devoured Mycroft’s body with his eyes, his gaze staying way too long around the crotch. Sherlock despised him immediately; not only because he was the only one allowed to look at his brother like that and to call him anything other than Mycroft, but because of what he could deduce about him: law student, following his father’s path but disappointing the family, self-important, pathological liar, serial cheater. And he had a small penis. That was one superfluous deduction, he thought. But what really angered him was his brother’s body language. Mycroft looked uncomfortable and uptight. It’s the asshole who broke his heart three years ago, Sherlock realized.

As he tried to reign in his anger, Sherlock took a discrete step towards his brother, ready to intervene at any moment, feeling more protective than ever. However, he quickly understood that Mycroft had the situation under control as he answered with an icy tone,
“Maximilian. What a pleasure. Excuse us, but we are expected elsewhere. Have a nice day.”

“Oh, come on, Myke, enough with the fake indifference. I made a mistake. It’s not like we were serious anyway. Here, I have an idea. Why don’t you come over tonight so I can show you how much you’re missed?” Sherlock gritted his teeth and refrained from punching him, but only because Mycroft smirked.

“What I missed? Do you mean your inability to last for more than five minutes or your newly acquired STD? Itchy, isn’t it?” Sherlock burst out laughing. He hadn’t deduced that.

“You freak. You only use people to get what you want, don’t you? And it seems you’ve found a new fucktoy.” He spat the last word out, looking at Sherlock with pure disgust in his eyes. Sherlock stopped smiling abruptly and was ready to take him down but Mycroft moved before him, and in a quick succession of well-placed punches, Maximilian was on the floor, face crushed against the asphalt, squirming against Mycroft’s death grip.

“If you ever come near me or my brother again, I’ll kill you, and I’ll make it slow and painful.” Mycroft released him and spat on his face.

“Now, if you'll excuse us…” Mycroft took Sherlock by the arm and dragged him away, leaving Maximilian on the pavement.

Sherlock let him lead them away until they were sufficiently far not to be seen. He tried to dislodge his arm but Mycroft was holding tight.

“My. My! Stop!” he shouted the last word, a bit alarmed by his brother’s lack of answer. Mycroft flinched and stopped walking.

“I’m sorry, brother mine. That was rather unpleasant.” His hands were shaking, Sherlock noted.

“That’s all right, My. What an arrogant twat.”

Mycroft sighed. “I shouldn’t have let him come near you. I can’t believe I once...” the sentence trailed off. Was in love with him, Sherlock mentally filled in the blank space. It hurt, but now wasn’t the time for jealousy. Carefully, he put his arms around Mycroft, who stiffened at the contact before relaxing.

“Let’s go home, I need to touch you.”

“Please,” Sherlock said, smiling at the chosen word. Home, indeed. He couldn’t wait to be done with high school and finally come to London.

 

 

The last few hours of the weekend felt like paradise on earth to Mycroft. They cuddled on the sofa, clutching at each other; Mycroft proving again and again that he loved Sherlock more than anyone else, reassuring him with kisses and caresses. They made love on the floor because they didn’t want to let the other go to get to the bedroom.
When Sherlock had to go, they put their clothes on and, after a last kiss, headed to the train station. They stayed absolutely silent, speaking only with their eyes. As Sherlock got on the train, the Belstaff tightly wrapped around him, his hair a mess from their love making, his lips still pink and swollen by their kissing, Mycroft committed the image to memory.

Chapter Text

Sherlock’s brother was dragging his tongue over his hole and everything was too much. It was the first time Mycroft was actually exploring him there with his tongue and it felt so foreign but oh so amazing at the same time.

Sherlock had turned sixteen that day and had literally dragged his brother to bed as soon as they could retreat to their rooms without raising questions. Mycroft had been reluctant to do it under their parent’s roof but after Sherlock had strategically knelt on his brother’s bed, naked, offering his ass, he was just as desperate as Sherlock. This had led to Sherlock being fucked thoroughly by his brother’s tongue; unable to muffle his moans. Thank God their parents weren’t close enough to hear them, because the young boy’s sounds were getting louder and louder every second.

Sherlock wasn’t able to stay quiet, and he honestly didn’t want to because he knew how much it made Mycroft itch with want. He had maybe overdone it with the lascivious pose and the fake shy look over his shoulder, but hell, he would have died if Mycroft had said no. All's fair in love and war , after all. And being taken apart like that was overwhelming. The intimacy, the vulnerability of Mycroft licking him there was so great, he couldn’t imagine doing it with anyone else. The fact that his brother had his tongue against his ass made him shiver.

Sherlock moaned deeply, pressing back against his brother, who repeated the lazy drag of his tongue a few more times before he lay his whole mouth over his entrance and sucked.

“Oh,” he shuddered violently, body going rigid under Mycroft’s skilled attention. “Oh God!” Sherlock could feel the saliva sliding along his crack and wetting his balls. Mycroft chose that moment to slip his hand between Sherlock’s legs and take hold of his cock. He began to stroke him achingly slowly, reducing him to a panting, shivering mess.

“My, s-stop, I don’t want to- aaah- come yet,” Sherlock begged, out of his mind with want and need. Mycroft had stopped the second Sherlock had asked him to, probably worried, and the wet noise of the tip of his tongue sliding out of his arse had almost made Sherlock come. Mycroft lifted Sherlock and lay him on his back. He was looking at him with the fondest look in his eyes.

“What do you need?”

“Please, I want you to take me, please, My…”

 

At that, Mycroft’s eyes darkened. He reached for the lube and coated two fingers without further discussion. As he reached between Sherlock’s legs, they locked eyes and Sherlock tried to relax.

Mycroft was big. Sherlock had tried to prepare himself for the girth a few times since he had left London, but it was already difficult to do it himself with one finger and frankly uncomfortable with two. He couldn’t reach well or move his fingers inside, so he had resigned himself to wait for his brother to come home for his birthday. But Sherlock had already been used to the stretch for months; it was only a question of intensity. Moreover, he wasn’t afraid of getting hurt, as Mycroft would, on the contrary, take too much precautions.

Mycroft worked a finger inside easily and, after a few minutes of slow teasing, added a second. Sherlock was meeting each thrust of his brother’s fingers with his hips, trying to get more, needing more. His cock was leaking onto his stomach, but he didn’t dare touch it before Mycroft was finally in him, fearing he would come without his brother inside him once more. Mycroft had begun massaging his prostate a few minutes ago, and the sensation was becoming more and more intense until he couldn’t wait anymore.

"Ready, My. Please," he keened, and Mycroft nodded- still looking like he was in a haze- and slid his fingers out. Sherlock whined at the sudden emptiness. The elder Holmes slicked his cock quickly and moved into position between the cradle of Sherlock’s slim thighs. Sherlock met his brother’s burning eyes and he couldn’t look away; he was amazed by the sheer adoration, the raw emotion in his gaze.

“I love you.”

“Love you, too. Now please get on with it. I’m going to die if you don’t take me right now.” Mycroft huffed out a laugh at this admission and slowly, slowly, began to push in, inch by careful inch.

It was uncomfortable, frankly, being so full; it left a burning sensation that made Sherlock wince. The stretch was all-consuming, and the younger man was having a hard time relaxing. Mycroft noticed his discomfort and stopped moving, giving him time to adjust to the sensation. After a few seconds, Sherlock let out a deep breath and nodded slightly at his brother, who slid slowly all the way in.

Sherlock could feel the burn of the stretch, the cold air on his skin, the wetness at the tip of his throbbing cock, Mycroft’s hot breath against his throat, and the warmth where their bodies were touching. It was overwhelming to be close like this; too much and not enough at the same time.

“Are you okay?” Mycroft asked.

Sherlock nodded firmly, not quite trusting himself to speak. Mycroft leant down and kissed him, over and over, distracting him from the ache that throbbed inside him until the twinge from the fullness turned from something verging on painful to something much more pleasurable as his brother began to move slightly in him, just rolling his hips back and forth.

Mycroft began to thrust harder and Sherlock let out a moan, and another, and suddenly he was begging for more, surprised by his own eagerness. Not that he was embarrassed by the sounds that were escaping his mouth, merely taken aback by the sheer greed he felt consuming him.

 

 

When Mycroft found his little brother’s prostate, Sherlock moaned a very long “Myyy”. He then proceeded to hit that spot relentlessly, without hesitation.The elder Holmes groaned at how tight Sherlock felt around him.

Placing his hands on either side of Sherlock’s head, he pushed in again, angle deeper, hitting his brother’s prostate harder. Sherlock’s hips snapped up and Mycroft recognized that the younger man was close by the way his voice broke mid-moan.

He grabbed Sherlock’s cock and pumped it to the rhythm of his own thrusts.

“Let go, Sherlock,” he growled as he felt himself getting closer and closer, stroking the cock in his hand harder.

Sherlock came with a loud shout, his walls closing tightly around his older brother.

Mycroft took in the state of his baby brother, a whimpering mess, and relished the euphoria of being able to see him like that.

“My-croft,” Sherlock panted and his post-orgasm voice, even deeper than usual, went straight to Mycroft’s cock. The sight of the man underneath him, coupled with the way he broke his name so clearly in two, had Mycroft coming seconds later, pushing deep into the younger man.

Afterwards, he collapsed right beside his younger brother, who curled up into his side, still breathing heavily.

“How are you feeling?” Mycroft asked after a few minutes, taking Sherlock’s hands and holding his body against his torso as he nuzzled his nose against his brother's black curls.

Sherlock answered simply, “Happy.”

They fell asleep holding each other tightly, not caring about the mess between their bodies. They would worry about that kind of practical problem another day. For now, they were just two young men in love.

Chapter Text

Mummy found out about their relationship the last day of the Christmas holidays. They were kissing on Mycroft’s bed, thankfully still fully clothed. The door was not locked (and Sherlock would blame himself for months for forgetting something so obvious and idiotic, beating himself for ruining everything) and when Mummy barged into the room, neither Mycroft nor Sherlock had time to disentangle themselves. They all stood quiet for a second before Mummy began to yell at them, calling them freak, saying that they were disgusting and what will the neighbors think . Sherlock had never been so terrified in his life, not even when he and Mycroft got lost in Paris as children. Mummy grabbed him by the arm, slapped him and threw him out of the room. He didn’t even register the pain, too aghast to understand what was happening.

Sherlock stood in the hall to try and listen to what Mummy was saying to his brother, fighting the urge to take refuge in his mind palace. The thick walls that were a blessing when they were having sex were now preventing him from hearing what she was saying, but he could easily catch the tone of the one-sided conversation. Her voice was positively rippling with revulsion. As if she was caring about him, he bitterly thought. This was all about the reputation of the family’s name, he knew it.

Sherlock was scared that she was going to speak Mycroft out of their relationship. He didn’t care if she threw them out of the house. This hadn’t been his home since Mycroft’s departure for university anyway. No, home was the flat in London, where he would go next semester. What if Mycroft changed his mind?

Panic surged through his body as he began to hyperventilate. He wondered if it was an overreaction, or an entirely appropriate response to his universe crumbling before his eyes.

The door opened, and Mummy went out of the room. She didn’t spare him a glance as she made her way downstairs. Sherlock couldn’t care less, because he could see Mycroft, standing still in the middle of his bedroom, pale as a ghost, his fists clenched, eyes on the floor. His brother slowly raised his eyes and they looked at each other. Sherlock deduced what was about to happen in under a second. Detachment rolled over him like a cold wave. He felt like his blood had changed into ice, and why were his wrists hurting?

“Sherlock…”

“Don’t.”

“I’m sorry. I…” Mycroft was at loss for words and looked so guilty that Sherlock decided to cut his suffering short.

“I understand. Goodbye, Mycroft.” His voice was surprisingly steady and soft given the fact that he could feel his body shaking and the only thing he wanted to do right now was scream. But he was observing his own reactions as if he wasn’t in his body anymore. He was all of sudden in his bedroom, unable to recall how he got there. He remembered the pain of Mycroft fleeing him all those months ago. He couldn’t go through that again. He couldn’t.

He took a big breath and sat on the floor, cross-legged, closed his eyes, and progressively, room by room, began to delete every memory that was already tainted with pain and loss.

He was so deep into his mind palace, ready to eradicate every trace of Mycroft’s presence, that he didn’t register the tears rolling down his cheeks, or the skin of his left forearm breaking under the assault of his nails as he scratched it again and again.






 

Mycroft didn’t delete Sherlock. He had considered it at first, when he had gone back to his flat and every centimeter of it was still tainted with memories of his brother's two-days visit from months ago, but decided against it, because he felt like he deserved to suffer and he really couldn't resign himself to let his brother go. Moreover, the words that Mummy had said to him that day were burned too profoundly into his mind to hope erasing them. He was a monster, an abuser, a pedophile. Mycroft had always known what hating himself was like ; he had been overweight as a child, he was a freak, he would never fit into the society. But what he was experimenting now was a gut deep hatred against what he was and what he had done. He couldn’t even look at his own reflection.

So, instead of forgetting, he made himself emotionally numb, to the point of earning the nickname of the Iceman among his coworkers. Once he heard about his new reputation, he applied himself to build a whole persona, burying every feeling deeper and deeper.  

He accepted every dangerous mission that was sending him away, gladly leaving the stifling London air behind. Risking his life for his country helped him ignore the true reason he needed a getaway : his life was meaningless without Sherlock. He was deliberately putting himself into danger in the hope that he would die without having to actively commit suicide. It would be easier on Sherlock, he thought. And immediately after, he rebuked himself for his cowardice. He had no right to simply let everything behind.

So he worked harder, making himself essential to the government as he became the best agent on the field, and if late in the evening he came back to his empty flat, feeling numb and depressed, he carried on as if everything was normal. As normal as it could be, with half of his heart left behind.

And he didn’t cry, didn’t cry.

Chapter Text

11 months later, London



Sherlock was floating in and out of his deserted mind palace, caught in a haze. He couldn’t differentiate what was real and what wasn’t anymore, perpetually stuck in a circle of shooting up and going down from the high, unable to feel anything except the cold metal of the seringue piercing his skin.

He had been in London for four months at this point. He had spent the two first months walking through the streets where he had been with his brother, trying to rewrite his memories. In vain.

He had deleted so many but he wasn’t able to forget anything that happened after they changed their relationship. He had tried again and again, with different techniques but always the same result, not understanding why those particular memories were engraved in stone in his mind. It had been so easy to delete the solar system. He had erased dozens and dozens of nights spent stargazing in less than a minute, letting the memories fade with no more than a pang of regret.

But it was impossible to forget the pattern of Mycroft’s freckles or the taste of his skin or the way he held on Sherlock for dear life when he was sleeping. In reality, the room for astronomy was empty of every factual information he had once cautiously stored but full of the way Mycroft had smiled that night when Sherlock had made him forget about his stupid ex, or how Mycroft's eyes gleamed in the summer nights. Sherlock had wanted to clear his mind palace of his brother but had only succeeded in making it all about him.

Once he had understood his mistake, he had quickly filled it up again with tons of data, to try and flood everything that was related to Mycroft under a tsunami of facts about ashes, perfumes, bees, anything, anything he couldn’t link to his brother. It hadn’t work either, and he was unable to stay unmoving for more than two hours at a time.

So he had searched a way to alleviate his distress. That was when he had crossed path with Sebastian Wilkes. From then on, everything had gone downhill. Sebastian had sought Sherlock’s attention from the beginning of the semester, wanting to get his hands on the curiosity of the campus, the pretty 16-years-old genius with the sharp tongue. Sherlock had made a strong impression on the first day already, telling a professor off and exposing his affair with a student in front of a very amused audience. In truth, Sherlock was pretty upset and totally desperate because he had understood that university would not provide a sufficient distraction to his thoughts.

Sherlock hadn’t cared about Sebastian at all. To be honest, he couldn’t even remember his name or register his presence at his side during the rare lectures he attended. But after two months of constant tiredness, Sherlock was done for. And as he was walking down a street one night, trying to keep the panic attacks at bay, he had ran into Sebastian. And with a look at Sherlock’s face, Sebastian had knew he had just found the way to reach the teenager.

“Want to shut your brain down, Sherlock?“ he had asked. And yes, yes, Sherlock wanted to. Needed to. Anything. Anything to make it stop. Sherlock would have begged him.

And Sebastian had given him ketamine. Innocent enough, just something to slow down his mind, to make him feel like he was floating. It had been two wonderful hours of almost calm. But getting back to reality had been oh so painful. So Sherlock had looked for more, and from ketamine to ecstasy, and then on with heroin, and finally cocaine, with highs harder to achieve and weaker each time, he had slowly lost touch with reality.

And now he was there, on the floor of his flat, shivering from withdrawal and considering his options. He couldn’t remember the last time he slept or ate and he was in desperate need of a fix, but he hadn’t money anymore. On trembling legs, he stood up and fetched his coat. Maybe Sebastian would consider exchanging a fix with what he wanted from Sherlock.

 

 

 

 

The sound of his mobile phone ringing in the middle of the night startled Mycroft. He was working on his sofa, trying to plan the next mission with minimal implication from the men that were now under his orders. Worried, he picked the call up.

“Mycroft Holmes,” he announced, with the coolest tone he could manage, already preparing himself for bad news.  

“Yes, Greg Lestrade, I’m working with the police. We found a teenager passed out on the pavement in Camden, he had your number in his wallet. He had been taken to the hospital, seems he made an overdose… Mister Holmes?”

Mycroft felt really, really cold. He couldn’t feel his hands anymore and wondered how he was keeping the phone to his ear. I’m going into shock , he realized with detachment, as if it was happening to someone else. Say something .

“Yes. Where?” He choked the words out.

The policeman gave him the name of the hospital, and told him to call if he needed help. Mycroft thanked him, got dressed and called for a cab with automatic gestures. 

Once in the cab, his mind began to catch up with what was happening. Sherlock had taken drugs. Sherlock had overdosed. Probably not the first time, then. Mycroft felt immensely guilty. That was his fault. Sherlock hadn’t found a safe way to cope with his loneliness, just like he had predicted all those years ago. In truth, he wasn’t doing much better, but at least he has the consolation that it was for protecting his brother.

What to do now? Their parents couldn't be involved.They would only make it worse. He had to sort it out himself, and with minimal contact with Sherlock.

Mycroft threw a few bills to the driver as he hurried to get out. He ran to the reception and barked the name of his brother to the poor woman that was working there. Once he got the room number, (a room, not the ICU, not the ICU, he’s okay, thank god he’s okay), he rushed through the corridors and into the room.

Sherlock was asleep, looking so small in the hospital bed, his left arm attached to a perfusion. Mycroft hadn’t seen him in almost a year, but he could see that Sherlock wasn’t how he should be. He shouldn’t be this pale, or this skinny, or even this fragile. Sherlock was not weak : he was strong and brave and acute. It looked so wrong to witness him like this, broken and barely himself anymore. “Oh, Sherlock.. What have you done?” Mycroft reached to take his brother’s hand, but thought better of it at the last second. He would only make things worse by indulging in that kind of behaviour.

As he had gotten closer to take Sherlock’s hand, something had caught his eye. Why… Why were there red, angry marks along Sherlock’s jaw and throat? Mycroft’s heart missed a beat. He delicately turned his brother’s face to the side, shuddering at the contact, his fingertips on fire against his cold skin, but quickly cooled down as he saw more and more bruises on his neck, and gasped at the violence that was depicted before his eyes. There were bite marks and fingertip-shaped blemishes on the soft skin of his brother. Someone had touched him, had claimed him, and that person hadn't care about Sherlock's well being. Sherlock wouldn't have let anyone manhandle him like that, marking him. Not even Mycroft would have dare, a few months ago. It wasn't love making, it was taming, breaking someone down. And suddenly, Mycroft knew : Sherlock had ran out of money and had exchanged something else against drugs. The extent of what he had let his dealer do was impossible to deduce while he was asleep.

His eyes travelled down Sherlock’s body and his gaze locked on his left arm. The perfusion had kept him from noticing the scars at first. There were clear signs of drugs consumption, speckled small needles holes and a few broken veins, but something else too, something that made Mycroft ache deeply : nails scratches scars in different degrees of healing. Sherlock was not using in order to make his brain work differently, or more efficiently, like Mycroft had wanted to believe at first. He was using because he was hurting. He was deliberately finding ways to concentrate the pain elsewhere.

“You’re better off without me, brother mine,” Mycroft whispered, taking in the state in which his brother was. This was his fault.

A nurse came into the room to check on Sherlock and Mycroft started, abruptly taken out of his thoughts by her chatter.

“He’s dehydrated, famished, drugged, bruised, but he will be okay, if he stops taking drugs and seeks treatment. Can you tell me if that was the first time?”

The nurse began to ask questions in a rapid succession, and Mycroft was mortified to realize that he couldn’t answer most of them. She wasn’t judging, and Mycroft was grateful for that.

“You’re here now, that’s the most important,” she told him, and Mycroft felt bad. He wouldn’t be there much longer. He knew he would be gone before Sherlock woke up.

He answered vaguely that he would arrange things for him. This was true, but he wouldn’t take care of his brother himself, no matter how much he wanted to.

He mumbled something about needing air and went out of the room. As he leant against the wall, he began to cry silently and buried his face into his hands. This was too much.

Mycroft heard someone cough and raised his head to see who was bothering him. A man was standing before him, and the deductions flashed at Mycroft, as the intuition that he could trust the policeman who apparently had found his brother took him by surprise. Mycroft trusted nobody, and certainly not a cop.

“Erm, Mycroft Holmes ? I’m Greg Lestrade.”

“Yes. Thank you for what you did,” he answered as firmly as he could, still disconcerted by his instinct.

At that, Lestrade smiled without warmth. “You are his brother, right? How come your parents are not there?”

“We have… a difficult relationship. It would be better if Sherlock doesn’t know that I have been there as well.”

“How is he supposed to get better if nobody helps him?!” Lestrade sounded appalled. He was already emotionally involved in the situation of his brother, Mycroft could tell. Which wasn’t a bad thing at all. Mycroft could trick him into helping Sherlock beyond his police duty. He just had to use the altruistic streak he deduced in him.

Mycroft let his defenses down. He couldn't believe he was letting a stranger see him like that, even if it was for the purpose of manipulating him. Money wouldn’t work. And the situation with Sherlock had worn him out too. He wasn’t half the man he used to be. Moreover, he trusted implicitly the man. He didn’t know why, but he knew he could. He was an ally, and Sherlock desperately needed someone who wouldn’t take advantage of him, for once. He would however make a thorough check on this man, of course.

“Listen, I see that you’re a nice person and a good policeman. You’re used to help addicts. But Sherlock is different, and I can’t take care of him. I will help from afar, but I can’t see him. So, if you could keep an eye on him…”

“Are you asking me to take care of your brother for you?” Lestrade looked gobsmacked by his audacity, but he had an almost amused look in his eyes too.  

Mycroft didn’t answer. Lestrade sighed and shrugged.

“I guess I can make sure I’m informed if he has contacts with the police again. “

“I don’t ask for more,” sighed Mycroft, the exhaustion and the relief of finding his brother alive washing over him. “I will send him into rehab, and he’s going to hate me, if that’s not already the case. I just need to know that he can turn to someone if he needs to.”

“Okay, okay, don’t worry. Here, give him my number.”   

 

After exchanging numbers, Lestrade left him alone with his brother again. Mycroft spent the night at Sherlock’s side and left only in the morning, when Sherlock began to stir. He had organized a cab to take his brother to a clinic and added Lestrade’s number to his phone. He had chosen the place he was sending him carefully and had made a few phone calls to make sure everything would go smoothly. Now, he had to take care of the bastard that had left those marks on Sherlock’s body. He was going to assure that he would never touch his brother again.



Chapter Text

Sherlock disappeared from the clinic not even 24 hours after being admitted. Which wasn’t surprising at all, thought Mycroft after hanging up with the director. Terrified but somewhat resigned, he sent a quick text to Lestrade to inform him that Sherlock was probably going to be back on the streets of London. And of course, he was right : Sherlock was found passed out in front of his building later that night, not even able to make it to his flat. He was sent into rehab again, and escaped, again.

It kept happening. Sherlock would be found in a drug den, or passed out in an alley, or would be arrested while buying drugs. Mycroft had put him under surveillance, but he didn’t have enough power just yet to be able to watch him closely. He had installed cameras in the bio hazard that was his brother’s flat, but Sherlock was almost never home, and Mycroft had no idea where he was hiding. Sherlock got hospitalized a few more times, and each time, Mycroft passed the night watching over him. He was gone before Sherlock woke up and was sent to rehab for the upteenth time.

But once, while Mycroft was tiredly watching over him, Sherlock had a nightmare. Mycroft, worried but not knowing what to do, watched his brother make pained groans as he trashed around in his sleep, his hands in a death grip around the bed sheets, the blue veins contrasting with his milky skin.

He had decided to let his brother calm down by himself, by fear to do more harm than good if he tried to interfere, because he looked oh so fragile and he didn't want to hurt him by manhandling him, but Sherlock suddenly began to scream. Mycroft jumped from his seat and reached for his brother's hand, panic surging through him as he watched Sherlock’s damaged hand grip his, his eyes tightly closed and his other hand frantically searching for something to hold onto while wailing sounds escaped his lips.

“My… don't leave me.” His brother was still caught in his nightmare, Mycroft could tell, and his words were strangely high-pitched, just like his voice sounded before puberty. It broke his heart. His baby brother was dreaming of him leaving, and it was reminiscent of the very first time.

Pained, Mycroft tightened his grip on his Sherlock's hand without thinking, and Sherlock stirred. He froze.

“Mycroft?” Sherlock sat down on the bed, his eyes unfocused and looking completely lost. Awake but still high, then. Mycroft quickly let his hand go and took a step back, distancing himself from his brother. He shouldn't have seen him. Why hadn't he immediately left?

“Why are you here?”

Mycroft was taken aback by the sheer coldness in Sherlock’s voice. The teenager looked petulant, even in a hospital bed, chin high and bored look in his eyes. Almost despite himself, he answered, tone equally as cold :

“Someone has to take care of your mess.”

He grimaced mentally at what he just said and at Sherlock's reaction: every bit of resolve he seemed to have gathered crumbled before his eyes. The angry teenager had let place to a broken child in a matter of seconds. It took everything he had not to let his mask fall down as well.

“Please take me back.” Sherlock's eyes were piercing his very soul with the most broken and implorant look he had ever seen, before letting his gaze drop to his hands. They were still slightly oriented in Mycroft's direction, as if he wanted to reach for him but not quite dared to do so. His brother was begging him and Mycroft wanted to take him into his arms and tell him everything would be okay, but they couldn't. They couldn't. His mother’s words were burning at the back of his mind. He had already ruined his life. So he braced himself for what he was about to say and hoped that Sherlock would hate him enough to never try to get to him again.

“No, Sherlock. Take you back? Do you think you deserve it? You're a shame to this family. I thought I could do something with you but I was obviously wrong.” At that, Sherlock lifted his eyes to meet Mycroft’s. The look of betrayal in his brother's eyes almost made him stop, but it was too late.

“Oh, please, did you really think I cared about you? I was just playing with you. Just like Maximilian said. You were only my fucktoy.“

He could the see the effect of his words on his brother, Sherlock made himself smaller and smaller with every word, his knees up to his chest, his arms around his legs. He was hurting , and Mycroft urged to rectify that, to make Sherlock smile and laugh and tell him he loved him, but no, he had to leave. Immediately. He turned to exit the room.

“You're lying,” stated Sherlock, with the smallest voice he had ever heard from his brother, but the tone was firm. It made him ache that Sherlock was holding on that truth like on a lifeline, but he wasn't really surprised that he had understood. Sherlock was young and insecure but not an idiot.

“I am. I'm sorry.” He wasn't going to break down and reach for Sherlock. He wasn't.

“Why?”

Mycroft couldn't feel anything as he got to the door, and with a last look at his brother, he told him:

“Caring is not an advantage, brother mine.”





Before leaving him for good, they had agreed on the List. It was less an agreement than an order but Sherlock had nodded at the fact that he had to write everything he took each time he shooted up, and Mycroft knew he would do it. But it didn't solve the problem of Sherlock running away from rehab.

Mycroft tried, he truly did, he gave it all his energy and invested everything he had not to break down and to keep Sherlock going and to be there without being there, and, and, and it wasn't enough. It would never be enough. Mycroft had messed up beyond repair. He kept having the urge to go back to his baby brother and to make things better, and he had to fight it every time, using every ounce of willpower he had to stop himself from making things worse. Because he was convinced he could only worsen the situation. 

Sherlock was out of reach. The List was a simple concession, just something to maintain Sherlock alive but not enough to actually make things better.

Mycroft was far from an idiot : he knew he couldn't make Sherlock stop. He had to stop by himself. His sixteen years old brother had to stop taking drugs by himself. That wasn't going to help with the guilt, but that was final. He would still go and see him, secretly, but instead of waking up in rehab, Sherlock would wake at his flat. And perhaps Sherlock was doing it to punish him for what he has done to him, and stop meddling would help. Maybe.

He couldn't believe he was giving up, but here he was, making sure that money was transferred to his little brother’s account ; it was better to help him pay for drugs than letting him sell his body, even if Mycroft had made sure that the asshole that sent him to hospital the first time had disappeared. Sherlock had found other ways, unfortunately. But it was better not to dwell on it for the sake of his sanity.

Chapter Text

Sherlock was sitting on the pavement, whispering to himself about the effect of the traffic on the murders’ rate or something. Lestrade had no idea why Sherlock kept finding his way to the police station every time he was high, because what kind of addict goes straight to policemen after shooting up?

Sherlock, it seemed. And not only was he putting Lestrade in a delicate situation, by asking for him while being high as a kite, but he was insisting on helping solve the case. The kid was violating a crime scene, for god’s sake. Again . And Lestrade was letting him, again , because Sherlock said things that he couldn't know, and somehow, he was always right. Well, almost always. The brat “deduced” (if you asked Greg, it was more an elaborate guess, but he decided to let the teenager call it how he wanted) that his marriage was falling apart. It would have been true six months ago but now his marriage was truly and fully buried into the ground, and that was thank to the little shit himself.

Well, maybe not fully because of him, but Greg was too young to get a divorce, and the fact that his soon to be ex wife had jumped into the excuse to accuse him to cheat on her with a teenager was not how he had envisaged married life, or the end of it for that matter. He was 29 years old and about to be divorced partly because Sherlock had tried to seduce him.

 

-A few months after their first meeting-

 

It was late at night when Lestrade took Sherlock to his flat for a hot shower and a meal. He had found him wandering the streets and the kid was terrifyingly thin and in need of clean clothes. He knew Sherlock had access to everything he might need thank to his brother but he was refusing the indirect help, so Greg had taken on the responsibility to feed him as often as he could.

While Sherlock was taking a shower, he called his usual Chinese restaurant and ordered enough to feed a hungry teenager for a week and then sat on the sofa to wait for his turn. Sherlock got out of the bathroom, the towel tightly pressed around him, looking a bit out of place, and Greg gestured him to the clean clothes he had taken out for him before going to take his shower.

Sherlock was sitting on the sofa when he got out. He was half dressed, (the top half, of fucking course), one leg folded under him, Greg’s oversized white shirt barely hiding anything from the thighs down. Lestrade froze midstep. And then the teenager stood up and the shirt fell open.

Greg almost had an heart attack at the sight of Sherlock's body. He was sickeningly thin, his ribs showing and covered in purple and yellow bruises. Lestrade was too shocked by Sherlock's state to think about why could the kid possibly be half naked and so close, which is why he was caught by surprise when Sherlock let the shirt slip off his shoulders and tried to kiss him.

He stopped him before their lips could touch, and immediately felt like the worst piece of shit because Sherlock had flinched in pain when his hands had gripped his wrists through the cotton of the shirt.

“Sherlock, are you hurt?” He asked, trying to sound calm even if he could see that the sleeves were turning a light red. He decided to ignore the alarms bells that were going off in his head because of the almost kiss for the moment, because Sherlock had his eyes firmly fixed on the floor and was silent, which, he had learned in the last months, was not a good sign. He took his hand and turned it upwards, before slowly pushing the material away, revealing the boy’s pale arm, covered in angry scratches. Most of them were on their way to heal but some were still bleeding. It was nothing he couldn't care of himself, thank god.

Greg didn't ask. He knew what it was like, to hurt so deeply you needed to feel it on your body too, to have a patch of skin to focus on. Still holding on Sherlock's hand softly, he took him back the bathroom and slowly disinfected the wounds, careful not to put too much pressure on them as he put bandages on.

The food arrived and they ate in silence, sitting on the floor. Sherlock had thankfully put pants on, and if he wasn't exactly covered, at least he wasn't trying to jump on Greg anymore.

Once Sherlock was done devouring the food, he looked up at Lestrade.

“Greg… I'm sorry.” It broke his heart, the way Sherlock apologized, as if he was afraid that Lestrade would kick him out now that he had showered and eaten.

He reached for Sherlock's hand again and was about to tell him that it was okay when his wife came home and began to scream at him because of the half naked teenager wearing one of Greg’s shirt in their living room.

Which was why Sherlock and Greg ended up in Sherlock's tiny flat (that wasn't arranging his case but hell he wasn't going to let Sherlock sleep outside, and he was sure the kid wouldn't have come back on his own. Moreover, he didn't have a place to stay the night because of this incident).

Sherlock immediately went to the kitchen- or what had survived Sherlock's modifications ,- to grab a cheap bottle of whisky, which was better than cocaine but still, Lestrade couldn't believe he was about to drink with a teenager. They sat on the floor again and passed the bottle back and forth, and Sherlock asked Greg to play deductions with him.

At first he had no idea what that was but Sherlock explained him what deductions were and that it was how he knew all these things.

“I wasn't actually on this crime scene because I committed the murder, Greg,” Sherlock said, an amused look in his eyes.

“Sorry for arresting you, I guess?” Lestrade wasn't really sorry, but things were beginning to make sense. How Sherlock seemed to know everything. How he always found himself in difficult situations. Why he was such a pain in the ass.

They played a few rounds with what was in Sherlock's living room and then Sherlock found an old newspaper and they went through the interesting articles together, Sherlock solving a few cases and Lestrade trying to remember his methods. It could come in handy.

Greg was pretty good at this game and Sherlock even told him that he wasn't half as bad as he thought he would be. Lestrade acted like he had been hurt by his words, exaggerating his betrayed groan.

“I saw you on a crime scene, remember?” Sherlock deadpanned. “I was under the impression you were hopeless.”

The little shit , he thought, but he was grinning and Sherlock was too. It was the first time he saw him smile since they met and the teenager looked almost healthy with his pinkened cheeks. Lestrade was feeling at ease with the boy, always had been, and they were both relishing the easy companionship between them as they begun to speak about more personal matters.

“Why are you staying with her if she makes you unhappy?” Sherlock asked, out of the blue. Greg was taken aback by the sadness in Sherlock's voice.

Lestrade didn't know, so he didn't answer, but Sherlock seemed to understand nonetheless.

“It was only a matter of time. And she's cheating on you. Probably jumped on the occasion to spend the night with her lover.”

Sherlock didn't exactly say sorry this time, but that was okay. Greg understood that offering the truth was his way of apologizing. It didn't prevent him to feel like shit, though, which was totally comprehensible when a seventeen years old told you that your marriage was doomed to fail from the beginning.

“Why the drugs?” He asked after a few seconds of silence. Sherlock simply shrugged, so Lestrade tried again: “Okay, why the strained relationship with your brother?”

“These are linked, actually.”

“Come on, I have a feeling that I'm going to save your arse again and again in the future,” he said in a light tone, not really wanting to push Sherlock but curious nonetheless.

Something changed on Sherlock's face.

The teenager took a big gulp of whisky, let the bottle slide down on the floor and began to ramble, the words hurried, as if he had locked them away for a long time and he couldn't stop them now that he had opened his heart. The breaths he was taking in between sentences sounded like sobs.

“He doesn't even want to see me anymore, I'm just a burden for him.”

“I- I know what we did was wrong, but why does he have to act like I'm no one for him? It's my fault if we got caught but I thought I was important in his eyes. “

“He promised me forever.”

“He lied to me.”

Greg was stunned into silence a bit more with each admission.

Now he had questions for Mycroft, like what the fuck have you done to your baby brother , emphasis on baby brother, you disgusting pile of shit, I can't believe I accepted to give you informations about his whereabouts and well being. I'm so gonna kick your ass, Mycroft Holmes.

But Sherlock wasn't done. And as he explained what had happened during the Christmas holidays, Lestrade felt his stomach clench uncomfortably. They had had sex.

“I love him so much, Greg, why did he leave me behind?” It was despair in Sherlock's voice, and for that, hatred in Lestrade’s gut.

Greg calmed down a bit when Sherlock explained that he had had to convince his brother because Mycroft had been reluctant. Okay. Okay. Not fucking okay but it was consensual at least. More or less. Greg knew he was way too angry to think clearly at the moment, so he let Sherlock cry his heart out without interrupting. Not that he was actually crying but he seemed seconds away to lose it.

“I don't know why I'm telling you this,” Sherlock admitted softly. He lifted his head and their gazes locked. Sherlock’s face immediately darkened, as he probably could see which way Lestrade's thoughts were leaning.

“Are you disgusted? Are you going to let me down too now that you know the truth?” He was louder with every word. “Do you think I'm a pathetic little slut too? I tried to get you too after all.” Sherlock's voice was positively ripping with self hatred as he spat the words out.

“Who told you that?” Lestrade was surprisingly calm. His anger was gone when Sherlock's arrived, letting place to concern. He wanted to know why Sherlock had such low self esteem before taking care of the rest. He wasn't really disgusted. Shocked, yes, and worried about the consequences on the teenager, but not repelled by him.

“Him. He called me a fucktoy,” Sherlock breathed, so softly Lestrade almost didn't catch it. His expression was unreadable.

Greg was confused. He couldn't imagine Mycroft calling his brother that. He had cried that night in the hospital and Lestrade could sense that he loved Sherlock dearly every time he asked for updates on his life.

“He didn't mean it. He probably believed it would make it easier for me to move on.”

Sherlock laughed bitterly. “And he calls himself the clever one. Does he even know me?”

Before Lestrade could say something, he saw that Sherlock was crying silently. Tears were sliding along his cheeks and his eyes were fixed on the floor.

Awkwardly, Lestrade scooted over to Sherlock and took him in his arms, letting the boy bury his face against his throat, soaking the hem of this shirt with his tears.

On how many more things will I have to close my eyes? Drugs, alcohol, crimes scenes, and now incest. Fucking Holmes Brothers. Since I met them every bit of moral I had slowly disappeared. I'm supposed to be a cop for God’s sake. Law and shit . He had drunken too much for having an existential crisis, he decided, looking at the almost empty bottle.

And why the hell had he accepted to take care of Sherlock in the first place? Because Greg was an idiot, that was why. Sherlock was a pain in the arse at best and a total nightmare the rest of the time. But Lestrade wasn't even angry at him for that. How could he? The child was a mess. He sighed and held him tighter, and rocked him late into the night, until the teenager breath evened out and exhaustion overcame them both.

 

 

 





What fucking kind of whisky was this shit, I’m never drinking anything from Sherlock's kitchen ever again.

Lestrade’s morning had been hectic. He had left Sherlock’s flat with the worst hangover of his life and dirty clothes from the day before only to be greeted by a case as soon as he had set foot in his office. It involved important people and thus more paperwork and phone calls than Greg was ready to deal with.

His phone rang again and he suddenly had to fight the urge to throw it across the hall. Already sensing his migraine getting worse, he picked up, only to be greeted by the coldest voice he ever heard:

“Gregory. Care to explain why you stayed at my brother's flat last night?” Lestrade could almost hear his disappearance being arranged.

“Erm.” Why did he stutter? He had no reason to feel guilty. Mycroft, on the other hand…  Lestrade stepped into an empty room and closed the door.  

“Care to explain why you fucked your underage brother?” The silence at the other end of the call was deafening. The thought that Mycroft was probably signaling his agents to make sure his body would never be discovered crossed Lestrade’s mind. But the younger man spoke, and although it was less frantic and chaotic as Sherlock's monologue from the previous day, and would even appear cold and controlled to most, Greg could hear the same pain in his voice. Just like Sherlock. In the end, even with all the responsibilities and power Mycroft had, he was barely an adult.

“I don’t know what he told you, but it was my fault. Everything is my fault.” He sounded utterly ashamed and defeated, and Greg felt bad for him.

“That’s all you have to say?” He asked, more softly than he had planned when he had imagined this conversation. He was met by silence once again, and he wondered if Mycroft’s silences were bad signs just like Sherlock’s. Probably.

“Listen, I won’t do anything. I don’t pretend to understand it but in the end that’s none of my business. But Sherlock needs you. You have to find a way to help him because if he continues like this he’s going to die before he reaches twenty.”

“Thank you, Gregory.” Mycroft wasn’t going to do anything, he could hear it in the way he thanked him. Lestrade felt oh so tired . Children, both of them.


The shit I put up with.

Chapter Text

Mycroft got shot on Sherlock's eighteenth birthday.

It was stupid, really, a dumb mistake, just a slip into his usually perfect reports. He shouldn't even have been on the field that day.

But somehow he was, maybe because he had insisted, maybe because he needed to do something, instead of thinking of Sherlock's birthday, of Sherlock’s eyes, skin, laugh, of Sherlock’s everything , alone in his stupid flat, like he had done the previous year. Sitting on that very same couch they've kissed and caressed and whispered and loved .

He was itching the whole mission, his iceman persona barely into place, shaking at the ends, ready to slip off and to let him bare to the scrutiny of strangers, showing how pathetic and fragile he truly was. It was like trying to hold a piece of paper in a storm.

Every single step hurt, so he didn't think much once he had registered that the pain that was oozing from his chest had been caused by a bullet, and not by the Sherlock’s shaped hole in place of his heart.

He fell backwards.

As he closed his eyes, his only thoughts were for his baby brother, losing himself to drugs, and he understood.

It was relief flowing through him, not fear.

He wouldn't have to pretend anymore.





 

“These tings will kill you.” Lestrade’s voice breached through the fog that was paralyzing Sherlock's mind.

He grunted in answer, not trusting himself to form words just yet. As he tried to relocate his legs, he realized he had passed out in his flat for once. Good thing as it was… December? January? He was almost sure it was winter.

“What are- what are you doing here?” His throat felt so dry. He coughed mid-sentence and had to choke the words out. He knew he sounded like a dying old man but couldn't find in him the energy to care.

Lestrade let out a sigh.

He opened his eyes. He could read… sadness? worry? in Lestrade’s body language. Nothing new, then. He would probably have been able to deduce why it was different than usual if he was in his normal state, but he was high as a kite, and not used to be shocked, which is why he couldn't grasp Lestrade's next words:

“Your brother had been injured.”

Sherlock simply laughed, short and high, and it was painful and sounded wrong, but what was he supposed to say? Mycroft couldn't get hurt. It was like saying that the sun got round the earth, or was it the other way around? Everything was so confusing. He just wanted to sleep.

He closed his eyes again.

“Leave me alone,” he pleaded. Just leave me there. I can't even deal with myself at the moment, how do you think it will go if Mycroft is hurt.

A minute passed in utter silence and Sherlock began to believe that the cop had departed without him noticing when he suddenly got lifted from the floor.

“I can't believe you're high right now, you brat. I'm being serious. We're going to the hospital.”

Sherlock didn't resist. He was so, so tired and began to sob even before they went through the door of his flat, his hands clenching on Greg’s shirt frantically. Because deep down, he already knew that Mycroft was in a critical state. Lestrade didn't even want to wait for him to come down from the high. It could only mean that it was bad.

As Greg let him down on the front seat of his car, he slumped against the door, his body going limp. He realized he was freezing because of his damp clothes, and his hands were shaking.

He wanted his coat.

He wanted Mycroft.

But he had lost his coat long ago and his brother was in a hospital, in God knows what state, and probably hated him.

Sherlock kept shaking.

 

 

 





Sherlock barged in the waiting room, Lestrade hot on his heels. His brother was on the operation table and nobody could tell him anything about his state.

“Sherlock, calm the fuck down.” Greg looked angry.  

Maybe he had revealed the darkest secrets of half the nurses in his urge to know how Mycroft was, but he didn’t care, why weren’t they helping Mycroft? The world couldn’t go on without him. He was already barely functioning like this, if Mycroft died, he would collapse.

He was forcefully sat down by the cop, so he took his knees to his chest and began to scratch his arms in frustration and fear.

He waited. And waited. And waited.

He realized he had fallen asleep when he was woken up by Lestrade. It was already dark outside and his whole body was hurting from withdrawal and his impossible  position.

“Sherlock… Your parents phoned.”

This couldn’t be good. The older man looked ready to murder someone.

“They won’t come. Mycroft cut ties with them a few months ago.”

He hadn’t even thought of the fact that they should have been there. They never cared about him taking drugs and failing his classes, and he understood that it was his brother’s doing, because his mother would have been mortified that a Holmes could do things like this. Mycroft had probably prevented them to meddle. That, coupled with the Christmas events had probably been enough for their parents. And Mycroft had defended him.

Sherlock wondered why Mycroft didn’t come back to him if he didn’t care anymore about their parents’ sensibilities, and damn, it hurt. Maybe he had really forgotten him. What was he doing there, waiting for someone who had stopped caring about him?

He knew he was being unfair and irrational, but the need to escape was greater with each second, and it was easier to believe that Mycroft didn’t want him there than to have to face the consequences if he didn’t make it. Sherlock wanted to shoot up so badly.

But before he actually made the decision to get up and leave, he felt a hand on his. He lifted his head and met Lestrade’s eyes. The cop was smiling at him, and he didn’t understand why until he saw that a doctor was in the room with them.

Mycroft was out of danger.

 

 

 

 

Sherlock slowly entered the room, a bit unsure about how his brother would be.

Mycroft was looking so pale, his freckles contrasting violently with his skin. They were bandages around his chest, but apart from that, he looked like he was peacefully sleeping.

Sherlock took his brother’s hand in his and began to ramble to cover the sounds of the machines and the inner voice that was telling him to find heroin, quick. He wanted to believe that Mycroft needed him there.

“You better wake up, you idiot. The whole country is about to collapse. Pretty sure I saw the Queen in the waiting room.” He smiled despite himself. This was probably not that far from reality.

“You did it on purpose, didn’t you. You’re too good to get distracted on a mission.”

He spoke and spoke, only interrupted by nurses that came to check on his brother from time to time.

As the sun began to rise, he vaguely thought that Lestrade had probably asked the doctors to let him stay the night. He looked at Mycroft, who was looking better but still too pale for his liking. He felt his heart clench and averted his eyes to look at their joined hands.

“You should stop doing that, Mycroft. I think you already abandoned me enough. What is it, the fourth time? Fifth? You’re a rubbish big brother, you know. ”

Mycroft suddenly rasped out a sorry as he moved, which startled the younger, because he really thought he was asleep. Their eyes met and Sherlock saw remorse in Mycroft’s.

Sherlock felt immensely guilty for accusing his brother of letting him down, and the relief of seeing that he was alive and awake, coupled with the terror he had felt earlier, made him burst into sobs.

“I c-can’t lose you again,” he managed to say between hiccups. He didn’t want to cry in front of him but he couldn’t help himself. He had been too close to lose him definitely.

“I’m okay, Sherlock, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please don’t cry.” Mycroft’s voice was hoarse and barely audible but Sherlock could understand him nonetheless, just like before, just like these two years hadn’t happened. Mycroft didn’t tell him to go away like he had feared.

He clasped their hands tighter, hesitantly.

Mycroft visibly hesitated:

“We can’t-”

Sherlock sobered up immediately, ice ruining into his veins at Mycroft’s unsteady opposition. This wasn’t weak because of the gunshot. He wasn’t even convinced about it himself . He dropped his hand.  

“Shut up. Just shut up. I don’t care about what we can do or not. Why can’t you understand that it makes thing worse?” He shouted.

“I needed you. I kept hoping that you would come get me but you never did. What about forever? What about your promises ?” Mycroft was looking at him, expressionless now, which made Sherlock shout even louder. His brother didn’t understand how wrong he was.

“I don’t care about laws or morals, or about what people think. I know you don’t either so why, why don’t you want to be with me? We could have everything. And yet here you are, deciding what’s best for me, and almost dying because you can’t even take care of yourself .” Sherlock’s voice broke on the last word, his anger gone, letting place to despair.  

“Please don’t do that to me,” he begged, deciding that it would be the last time he would plead in his life. He couldn’t stand being in that position anymore.  

 

 

Mycroft closed his eyes tightly, his hands clenching the bedsheets, trying to maintain his composure but failing miserably.

“I wanted to give you a chance to be normal but I screwed up,”  Mycroft whispered, “I wanted you to have healthy relationships and to fall in love with other people.”

“Except that no, I didn’t want you to have someone else than me. I didn’t want you to live without me. I didn’t want you to be normal. I’m selfish of your smile and of your laugh and of everything you are. I tried not to be, and it was even more egoistic.”

He took a big breath.

“I feel like I’ve ruined everything for you even before you had a chance to grow up and try by yourself and I don’t want to be the cause of your unhappiness.”

“You need to have a chance to be someone without me. I-I’d understand if you wish not to see me again. Just know that I want you to be mine. I’m so in love with you, and I’ll never not be in love with you.”

Mycroft let his head fall back on the pillows, exhausted.  

“That was rather emotional of you, My.” Sherlock’s eyes were bright with unshed tears.

“Oh, do shut up.” Never shut up . They smiled at each other, carefully, both afraid of shattering the moment.

“You already know what I’m going to say.”

“Of course. What are you doing?”

“I’m tired and I want to be near you. Scoot over.”

Sherlock got on the bed, careful not to disrupt anything. He laid down against his brother.

This wasn’t perfect. Sherlock was feeling the withdrawal symptoms and Mycroft was hurting all over. They both had a long way to go before recovering, but at that moment, they were falling asleep together and really, they couldn’t be happier.

Chapter Text

Sherlock put his bag on the floor of his brother’s small flat and looked around. Almost everything was the same as in his memories.

“Why do you still live there?” he asked, wondering why his brother hadn’t looked for a better place now that he had enough money to pay for something bigger.  

“It would have felt like leaving another part of you behind to leave this place,” Mycroft admitted, dead serious and not embarrassed at all by his blatant demonstration of sentiment. Sherlock was so happy to see his brother display his feelings it hurt.

“The Iceman, right,” the younger teased, not able to control the smile that was slowly growing on his face.

“I can stop if you want.”

“Don’t you dare.”

“That’s what I thought.” Sherlock grinned at his brother’s confidence and took two steps to hug him. He was only a few centimeters shorter but he was feeling so small, his face hidden against his brother’s throat and his hands on his chest, counting his heartbeats.

They had talked together so much, in between hospitals and clinics and dinners in cheap cafeterias, it felt like they were never apart. But something was different: they had barely touched each other, except for these spontaneous hugs, when they both needed the reassurance that the other was really there, alive and safe. At first it was because they were both healing, and then because they were afraid. Sherlock knew his brother didn’t want to push him into a sexual relationship too quickly again, and himself didn’t want to make him do things he would later regret, but it was difficult not to kiss him right there right now. But they were finally on their own again, at home, where they belonged, and Sherlock felt himself grow impatient.

They stood there for a while, inhaling the other’s scent and enjoying the proximity. Sherlock withdrew a bit to look at Mycroft and their eyes met.

“Sherlock… Can I kiss you?” Mycroft whispered, his eyes on his little brother’s lips now.

“Please.”

It began soft and slow but Sherlock felt like he was burning from the inside. He needed more, he needed Mycroft to show him he was his. He opened his mouth and tasted his brother with his tongue, his hands finding the growing bulge in Mycroft’s pants. Mycroft moved his hands to rest them on his little brother’s ass, urging him to get closer. They found their way to the bed and fell on it, still all over each other.

Mycroft held Sherlock’s hands on top of his head, pinning him to the bed and lavishing his throat with kisses and bites, relishing the sounds his brother was making, only quickly letting go to take their clothes off.

Sherlock arched up into him and Mycroft could feel his cock against his thigh. He pressed his hips down and rocked against him, making Sherlock moan louder.

“My, I want you in me, please, please-” The elder Holmes interrupted him with a kiss while taking the bottle of lube that was on the nightstand. He opened him quickly, working two fingers while looking down at the taunted muscles of Sherlock’s stomach. His brother looked ethereal, spread on the bed like this. Mycroft couldn’t resist giving him lovebites to contrast with his pale skin. He bit at his collarbones and kissed them better right after.

“My…” Sherlock was desperate for more, his hands caressing his brother’s body everywhere he could.


“Yes, yes, I’m here…” Mycroft kissed him, hard, and let his fingers slid out, before lubing himself up. He grasped his brother’s hips and pressed forward. They both moaned loudly at the feeling.

He began to rock back and forth, picking a quick rhythm almost immediately. It was hard, fast and dirty, like they never had the chance to do because their time together had been too short for that. It was claiming back, and god, it felt amazing to be able to touch him, to be able to have him.

Sherlock gasped for air and begged for more even as there was nothing left to be given. They came together, their lips still against each other’s skin.

Mycroft felt breathless and light, with Sherlock underneath him, safe, nose buried in his dark locks. The love he felt for his little brother was threatening to spill out and he barely managed to stop himself from crying of relief.

“I love you,” he whispered against Sherlock’s temple. The younger kissed his throat as an answer, and they fell asleep like that.



They woke up hours later, sticky and overheated, but they didn’t move. On the contrary, Sherlock buried himself deeper under his brother, hiding his face against his chest and mumbling absently:

“So nice and warm… Can we stay like this forever? You could be a substitute for my coat.”

Mycroft smiled and raised an eyebrow, before getting up to rummage in the closet, ignoring his brother’s protests and attempts at keeping him in bed. Sherlock finally sat up, curious:

“My?”

Mycroft turned to face him, the coat on his arm. Sherlock looked dumbfounded.

“I found it in a street and cleaned it,” Mycroft said, smiling sheepishly.

Sherlock jumped from the bed straight into his brother’s arms and crushed Mycroft in a death grip before releasing him to put his coat on, still fully naked underneath. He swirled, laughing. “You’re the best!” Sherlock was dancing now, not caring about the silliness of the situation. Mycroft swore his heart was going to explode because of the sheer fondness he felt for his brother.





The world seemed to shift around them, letting them untouched and in peace in the middle. They had changed but they were still there, making their impossible relationship work.

Sherlock had no memory of what Mycroft had taught him all these years, but it was okay, because his brother had so many other things to teach him and they still enjoyed looking at the stars together, even if Sherlock couldn’t remember their names. He told Mycroft he didn’t need to understand to appreciate their beauty and that he could remember everything that was truly important, but refused to say what he meant with that.

They were possessive of each other and the presence of others felt like an intrusion. Greg was still their friend but both Sherlock and Mycroft were embarrassed in his presence, and Sherlock took on calling him by wrong names. Greg didn’t really mind, because Sherlock was happy and still helping him on cases.

Mycroft’s work at the government was more and more significant with each passing day and Sherlock couldn’t be prouder. He couldn't show it in public though, so he made sure to make up for his snarky remarks when they were alone. No one, expect Greg, suspected anything and they were very careful when they were out together, hence the fake strained relationship. Mycroft even rented a small flat under Sherlock’s name to cover for the fact that he spent every night at his place. It was turned into a lab almost immediately.

Sherlock’s sleep was chaotic, and Mycroft had to thoroughly exhaust him or he wouldn’t sleep at all. He often found him playing the violin in front of the window in the middle of the night, after he woke up because the bed was cold. That was new, but he accepted that his little brother had changed. As long as Sherlock attended class and wasn’t taking drugs anymore, it was good enough for him. And he usually had no problem dragging Sherlock back into bed to cuddle or to make love.

But sometimes Sherlock would sleep the whole night, and Mycroft would wake up before him. His baby brother always looked peaceful in the morning light, his breath slow and steady against Mycroft’s chest, his body warm against him, and that was all he could wish for.  Sherlock, safe. Sherlock, happy.

Sherlock, his .